Parole
by Lynn Luther
Summary: Series 9, Byte 1, Episode 1. A tale of what happens when God puts two people in this universe who are made for each other, and they're both utter smegheads.
1. Prologue

_**Author's Note:** This is Byte one, Episode one of my series 9 stories. All characters belong to Grant Naylor and so on and so on etc. etc. ditto ditto...   
_

This entire series is dedicated to Tim, who got me hooked on this show. So it's all his fault.   


This is a slightly rewritten version, with some coding, spelling and grammatical errors removed. There were also one or two scenes that I wasn't thrilled with, so I futzed with 'em. Not to mention that I took the entirety of chapter 3 and turned it into the prologue. I also removed a lot of the Author's Notes, as this is a story, not a fucking Live Journal. This baby's thoroughly futzed with, I says.   


Enjoy the fuzting.   


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_Deep in space, three million years from Earth, the JMC mining ship Red Dwarf was in trouble. It had blundered from hapless adventure to hapless adventure, and now it was all coming to an end. The ship was burning, being eaten away by a terrible, mutated virus. The majority of the crew had abandoned ship, leaving behind only those prisoners of the penal wing, Floor 13. They were prisoners that could not be put in stasis for some reason or another. Of course they would not be saved._   


Smoke and fire all around. Choking on the fumes and ashes, Rimmer glanced up, and saw Death. With the black cowl looming over him, final, fatal, and forever, he knew that his life had, after three separate tries, come to a sorry, sad conclusion.   


"Arnold Rimmer, your life is at an end. Come with me, we shall cross the River Styx, where you shall..."   


Interrupting Death was something that could only be done by such a smeghead like Rimmer. "I don't think so, no." With that, he kicked Death in the groin.   


"OW!"   


"Sorry mate, but only the _good_ die young." And with that witty remark, Rimmer scampered off, away from Death. He didn't care exactly where he went, just so long as it was away from that THING. Fortunately, not all of the ship was burning. Unfortunately, the Chameleonic Virus had made it's way to the precise place where the posse had made their way into the Mirror universe.   


Come to think of it, how _had_ Kryten gotten them in there in the first place? Where did that device come from? Rimmer was fuzzy on the details.   


Rimmer made his way down several decks, avoiding the lifts, crawling on his hands and knees through the belly of the ship, through the air ducts. He had to detour a couple of times, once when the virus had completely melted away the mesh steel of the floor, and once when he thought he saw a dark and menacing shape before him. He had no intention of rumbling with Death again Besides, nobody likes a swift kick to the groin. The anthropomorphic personification of Death was sure to be pissed.   


Finally, he made it to his goal. The quarters that he used to share with Lister. Dropping out of the ceiling, he was momentarily overcome with a twinge of homesickness. After all, he and Lister had shared these quarters for several years. And now he was living on Floor 13. Almost brought a tear to his eye. Of course, pretty much anything made him cry...   


Enough of the sappy remembrances. He had a mission. Throwing open the locker, Rimmer began to roughly rummage through it. Throwing aside Lister's guitar, and Inga, his polythene pal who's fun to be with, he finally found what he was looking for.   


The luck virus. It had been left there by an oversight of the prison confiscators. They hadn't known what they had. Which is what Rimmer had counted on, having swallowed a drop before they hauled his sorry ass to jail.   


Or, at least, they left vial that _used_ to contain the luck virus. It was empty. There was a large crack in the side, presumably from when Rimmer had thrown all caution to the wind in ransacking the locker. He was now the proud owner of the luckiest storage unit in deep space.   


Howling in rage and frustration, slumped down on the deck, his face buried in his hands. This was it, then. No more chances. He'd sniveled and connived and weaseled his way through life, and now he had no bolt hole. For the first time in his life, Rimmer began to pray.   


"Oh, God. Look, uh, hi, it's me. Arnold Rimmer, Sss, Bss. I know we're not on the best of terms, but if you wouldn't mind getting off your lazy arse and getting me some help here it'd be super-duper. Amen." Not the best prayer in the world, but certainly sincere.   


After a moment, he felt something wet along the seat of his pants.   


Jumping up, he clapped his hands to his bum in embarrassment. Then, he realized that he hadn't wet himself. He tended to notice that sort of thing, after all.   


He was sitting in a puddle of the luck virus. He was now the proud owner of the luckiest ass in deep space.   


Without hesitation, Rimmer pulled off his trousers and began to suck on the wet spot. It was in this manner that Lister, Kryten, the Cat and Kochanski found him when they fell out of the mirror over the sink.   


"What the hell. . .?" began Kochanski, who was, understandably, put off by the sight of Rimmer sucking at his pants.   


"Hey Rimmer. Nice boxers," stated Lister.   


"Nice? Oh my Cloister, they're PAISLEY!" screeched the Cat.   


Rimmer, instead of dropping the pants and stammering an excuse, simply pumped his fist in the air and screamed, "It WORKED!!!" around a mouthful of khaki.   


The others stared at him. Kryten was the first to recover. "Sirs, Ma'am, I suggest that we enact our plan with all haste."   


Rimmer spit out his trousers and put them back on. "What plan?" he asked.   


"Well, when we were trapped in the Mirror Universe, we realized that even if we managed to transport the antidote formula to the virus here, we would have no time to synthesize it. When we couldn't find you, Mr. Rimmer, Lister pointed out that you were stuck back here. So we agreed to move to a safer portion of the ship to mount a rescue party. Now we don't have to. I assume you used the luck virus to facilitate that outcome, sir?"   


"In a way," said Rimmer, buckling his belt.   


"Excellent idea, sir. To continue, I realized that we could not go back the way we came, so we snatched the Trans-Dimentional Trans-Port from that Mirror Universe, came to Lister's quarters, and crawled through. Now, we are going to do something mind boggling. We need a second mirror. Who has one?"   


They all turned to the Cat.   


"Hey! Why assume me? Why not officer Bud Babe?"   


They continued to look at the Cat, eyes wide with amusement.   


"Oh, fine," he pouted, and pulled a silver plated hand mirror out of his jacket. "Here. But if you break it, you're reimbursing me." He handed the mirror to Kryten.   


"Thank you," said the mechanoid. He held the small mirror up to the bigger one over the sink. "Ladies first."   


"Why?" asked Kochanski, suspicious.   


"So that way, if anything happens, it'll happen to you." said Kryten in a deadpan.   


"KRYTEN!" exclaimed Lister and Kochanski together.   


At that moment, the door melted away, to reveal the corridor outside. Thick, black smoke poured in, hazing the view. The posse had only seconds.   


"Quickly, sirs and ma'am! Go! I'll hold up the mirror! Go!" he commanded. They wasted no time. The Cat went through first, followed by Lister, then Kochanski. Rimmer clambered up the sink and turned to Kryten.   


"Are you gonna get through ok?" he asked, uncharacteristically. After all, the mechanoid had just saved his bacon. . .   


"I'll be fine, sir! I'll bring my hand through last! Now hurry!"   


Needing no further incentive, Rimmer dove through the mirror.   


He felt like Alice upon falling into the rabbit hole. He fell with a thud, face down on something hard and smooth. He was almost afraid to look up. But he did anyway.   


He was in a long corridor, that seemed to stretch out infinitely. It looked like a bad fun house effect, achieved by putting two mirrors facing each other. He got to his feet and looked around him, walking slowly down the corridor. Reflected in those slivers of mirrors were an infinite number of Rimmers. Almost all of them resembled him so exactly that he was startled when he came upon his first variation. Reflected back in the mirror at him was a handsome man in a silver jump suit, with a terrible wig and a long, brown cigarette in his mouth. Wondering at the difference, he continued down the corridor, glancing left and right, trying to find other differences.   


Quite a few mirrors held nothing at all except for a few small, sad little space caskets. Rimmer shuddered, not bearing to think how or why those were reflected back at him. One mirror held a frightening vision, a man with black, straight hair, and a cruel sneer on his face, and the name-tag Judas on his breast. But then he reached a mirror where, instead of his own face, he saw Lister's peering back at him. Lister made a startled face, reached his hands through the mirror, and, (much to his astonishment) hauled Rimmer bodily through.   


Rimmer found himself in his old quarters. Before him stood his friends, looking none the worse for the wear, and seemingly bemused by something. Turning slightly, he saw Kryten's foot emerge from above the sink. He scrambled to remove himself from the line of descent. He'd hate to get a back full of heavy mechanoid. Kryten's other leg appeared, followed by his torso, then his head, and finally his arms and hands. He was grasping the little silver mirror like a drowning man would cling to a piece of driftwood, or Lister would cling to the last curry. The Cat marched up and grabbed it away, tucking it in his suit.   


"Where'd you go, eh? How'd you show up in the mirror like that?" asked Lister. But Rimmer had no answer to that question, so just shrugged his shoulders instead.   


Wherever he had been, he was here now. And not only was the room not burning around them, but everything was exactly the same as on the other Red Dwarf. The original. When he had gone to the first Mirror Universe, he'd had the captain's insignia on his collar, and his hair was parted differently. And the Cat was. . . well. . . a nerd. And Kochanski was a blonde bimbo receptionist. He hadn't seen Lister, but he supposed that was all for the best, really. But this made no sense. Everything was exactly the same, minus the teensy detail of the ship being dissolved around them.   


"What the smegging hell just happened?" he asked, afraid of getting the answer.   


"Sir, this is another Mirror Universe. In fact, this is a reflection of the first Mirror Universe. You see, I got the idea to generate a second Mirror Universe from something Mr. Lister said."   


"Which was what?"   


"He said, 'I wonder what would happen if we held a mirror up to this mirror?' Anyway, everything in this universe will be the same as in our universe, but the ship won't be breaking down, due the virus that's in our universe. But in this universe, the virus never came here. Essentially, we've Mirror Universed that virus right out of existence."   


"Kryten?"   


"Yes, Mr. Lister?"   


"Stop saying 'Universe.' You're giving me a headache."   


"Yes, Mr. Lister."   


At that point, three heavily armed guards had burst in. Apparently, the crew hadn't abandoned ship in this place. They had no need to. There was no virus. They demanded to know how the five miscreants had managed to escape their cells on Floor 13, cuffed them all, and goose stepped them back to their respective cells. All in all, that was a better ending than being roasted alive or turned to Jello by a horrible virus.   


But still, it sucked great big smegging donkey dick.   


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	2. Chapter 1

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Well, life was getting back to normal on the Red Dwarf.   


If you could ever call it that.   


Rimmer, Lister, Kochanski, the Cat and Kryten had finished their two years on Floor 13. Away from the inmates, the guards, and the food _(blech!)_, the boys (and Kochanski) were finally free. The Posse had been free for nearly a week. Free to eat what they liked, dress as they pleased (The Cat had wept with joy upon being reunited with his wardrobe.), wake up when they pleased. In fact, just two days ago, Lister had sat bolt upright from a dead sleep, sweating and shaking, wondering what that noise had been. It had been the lack of a blaring alarm call that woke him up. But they were free.   


Aboard a starship stuck three million years from the Earth.   


Gads, irony is a bitch. . . .   


All in all, however, the Red Dwarf posse were happy to be free. Free to live normal lives. They were able, for the first time in two years, to really live life, to revel in their hopes and dreams, to meditate quietly on the meaning of freedom and life.   


Rimmer was pissed, and not in the American sense, either...   


He was sitting in his dark quarters, his head down on his table, with five cans of "Wicked Strength Lager," empty before him, listlessly crushed. He had almost finished the sixth. It sat half forgotton in his hand. He didn't care that all the carbonation had long since burbled it's way into the atmosphere. He drank it anyway.   


He was also smoking a cigarette.   


He had only smoked once before. It was back in his salad days at the Spacers Acadamy, and had been on a dare. His stomach had turned, his face went a peculiar color of green and he had had a headache for days afterwords. Worst of all, the taste. . . and he had resolved never to do it again.   


Yet there he was, smoking like a chiminey, and it was all Lister's fault.   


"Oh, yeah, that's the stuff, Ace. Blame it on someone else, for a change of pace," he said aloud to his dim, empty room, unaware of the poem he'd just drunkenly composed.   


He felt a spasm in his back, and stood up, trying to work out the kinks. He wobbled for a moment before regaining his equilibrium. Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror above his sink. Gazing at his reflection, he was momentarily shocked at what exactly stared back at him. He looked awful! He was drunk! And smoking! A cigarette! Of all the things to smoke! Realizing the futility of this line of thought, he dropped the offending material into his can of lager, only to find himself reaching for the near empty cigarette pack over on his table moments later.   


"Aaargh," he screamed quietly. He picked up his beer and took a deep swig, forgetting that there was a butt in there. Choking, he rushed to the sink and spat out, watching a stream of lager and the end of his rolly come out of his mouth. That was all he could take. Crossing the room, he flopped down on his bunk, intent on sleep and hopefully oblivion, and closed his eyes.   


He wondered when the room would stop spinning, because he'd very much like to get off now, please.   


He opened his eyes, hoping that this would allow the room to cease it's gyrations. It only stopped for a moment, then began again with a vengence. He realized suddenly that he was going to throw up.   


He jumped up, rushed back to the sink, and only just made it as the contents of his stomach pushed up and out of his mouth.   


He gagged for a hellacious minute longer, then slumped to the deck. He reached for a towel on the nearby rack, wiped his face off, and then sprawled across the hard, cold metal floor. _At least I know where my towel is..._ He closed his eyes again. The room wasn't spinning anymore. A decided impovement.   


He lay there for a moment, wishing that the world would stop treating him like it's personal toilet paper. "Look at me!" he said aloud again. "I'm a total and complete waste of oxygen. I'm drunk, I'm worthless..."   


"Not to mention ugly, stupid, cowardly, and not someone I'd take home to meet me mum."   


He was so wrapped up in his drunken stupor that he hadn't even heard the door open. Rimmer raised his bleary eyes, only to be confronted with the sight of Dave Lister, looking down at him with something akin to sympathy in his eyes. Rimmer groaned and tried to turn his face away.   


"What the smegging hell are you doing here, Lister? Come to kick the poor bastard when he's down?"   


This came out in a barely audible slurred mumble. Lister at least had the good grace to look embarrased.   


"Look, man, I was coming to give you your assignment papers, but now..." He trailed off, then continued, "But now I've come here to help you up and get you into bed." With that, Lister wrapped his arms around Rimmer's waist and hauled him bodily up. Rimmer tried to push him away, but was too drunk to make it effective.   


"Go away, Lister. I donnwanna see you right now." And, because there are certain conventions that must be followed, he belched right in Lister's face.   


Lister waved a hand in front of his nose, pulling a sour face. "Who d'yer think you are, ME?" Lister guided the taller man into the bunk, and layed him down. Then, grabbing a chair, he turned it around and straddled it, resting his chin on top of it. After a moment of quiet observation, Lister said, "You look like hell, Rimmer."   


"Yes, well, you don't know what it's like. You don't care what happens to your career." Rimmer turned his face to the wall, so as not to see Lister's concern. That baffled him. For the past three years, Lister had made his life hell on earth. Why the sudden concern? Rimmer knew that any attempt to become an officer at this point would be an exercize in futility. Lister twitted him about it. Constantly. So again, why the concern?   


"That's true," Lister admitted. "I could care less. But I know you care, so I came up to give you some good news and some bad news."   


Rimmer turned and faced Lister, all embarrassment forgotten. "Well, give me the bad news first."   


"You sure?"   


"Yes I'm sure."   


"Positive?"   


"Yes, dammit, give me the bad news!"   


"Are you 100 percent, absolutely dead set on the bad news first?"   


"LISTER!!"   


"All right, all right!" Lister pulled a piece of rumpled paper out of his trousers. "You and I are back on chicken soup dispensor maintainence, zed shift. And they've made me the shift leader. They said something about, 'good behavior and a higher leadership ability' and all that smeg."   


Rimmer groaned again. This was the worst possible outcome. Not only to be denied the chance at officerhood, but to be back cleaning chicken soup nozzles for the next 3 million years... With Lister as his superior. "What's the good news?"   


Lister grinned. "Kochanski gave me a kiss tonight."   


Rimmer propped himself up on one elbow, not believing what he had heard. "That's my good news? That Kochanski kissed you? Why the smeg would that possibly be good news for me?"   


Lister pouted mockingly. "I never said it was good news for YOU, man!"   


That was all Rimmer could take. "You, Lister, are without a doubt, the nastiest, meanest, slimiest son of a bitch I've ever had the misfortune to meet! Get out of my room, you misbegotten pile of rat turd! OUT!!!" He lurched from off his bunk, and Lister jumped up, knocking the chair over, and ran from the room, giggling.   


Rimmer lay back down, and squeezed his eyes shut. _Oh, Lister makes me sooo MAD_, he thought. He heard his door open again. Without even looking, he yelled, "I told you to leave, you overgrown, fungus-y toenail clipping!"   


"Fine," came a feminine voice. "Miss your parole appointment, see if I care." Rimmer's eyes flew open. Kochanski stood in the doorway, looking shocked and slightly angry. She was as polished as usual, wearing her trademark red PVC outfit.   


Rimmer leaped to his feet, and threw a slightly shakey Rimmer 3/4 twist with the flourish at the end salute. "Sorry, Miss Kochanski, Ma'am, I thought you were..."   


"Lister?" the woman asked gently.   


"Lister," agreed Rimmer.   


Kochanski came into his room. "I know. He passed me in the hall. Please, Rimmer, sit down. And don't salute me. I'm not an officer anymore." She uprighted the chair that Lister had knocked over and sat down in it, properly, with her ankles demurely crossed. Rimmer nodded gratefully and slumped into his bunk. Then, something that had been nagging at his liquor soaked brain sunk in.   


"Parole appointment?"   


"Yes, Rimmer, your parole appointment. We're all to have parole officers. I've already met mine, as have the Cat and Kryten. You and Dave are to meet yours tomorrow morning at 0900 sharp." She handed him a sheaf of papers. "This is an unofficial heads up, as it were. You'll receive your official notice tonight before lights out." She glanced at him with a slight look of curiosity. "I suggest that you try to get some good sleep. And for gods sake, Rimmer..."   


"Yes?"   


"Try to clean yourself up. You look a mess."   


She stood and made as if to leave. Rimmer stopped her. "Kochanski?"   


"Yes?" She stood at the door, poised to leave.   


"Why on earth did you want to kiss Lister?"   


Her eyes widened for a brief moment, then said, "I didn't kiss Lister."   


"Oh," said Rimmer. He paused for a moment. Then, a large, slightly mad grin spread across his face. "Good."   


*******************

  


Kochanski stalked out of Rimmer's quarters, with homicide on her mind. _How DARE he?_ she thought. _When I get my hands on him..._   


As if on cue, she felt a pair of hands wrap around her waist from behind. A low voice said in her ear, "Where're you goin', georgous? You ain't calling it a night so soon, eh?" His breath tickled her earlobe. She resisted the desire to shiver. It was rather nice... She pulled herelf up short and spun around in the embrace, remembering her murderous mental meanderings.   


"Dave, I swear I'm going to kill you."   


He let go of her red swathed form and stuck out his lower lip. "What'd I do now?"   


"You promised that you wouldn't mention us to anybody! And Rimmer just pops right out and asked me point blank why I'd kiss you! Really, Dave, show some discretion for once in your life." Her hands were placed on her hips, and her head was cocked at him, one perfectly manicured eyebrow raised in annoyance.   


He smirked at her. "Sorry, luv. I just had to yank Rimmer's chain is all. You know how it is."   


If at all possible, her eyebrow went up a few more degrees. "I hate to think that our newly blooming relationship is something you'd use to twit Rimmer." Lister looked embarrassed. She glowered at him. "Besides, Dave, you know our parole officers would frown on us being together. They might suspect us of plotting an escape or something."   


"Get outta town!"   


"I'm quite serious, Dave. Now please, in the future, try to be a little more discrete."   


"No problem." And saying this, he grabbed her in a hard embrace and stuck his tongue down her throat.   


She tried to push him away, afraid of being caught. He noticed this, and, pulling away, said, "What, you mean the future NOW? Or, like, really the future, like 10 years from now?" And with a cheeky grin, he began to kiss her again.   


Kochanski was too shocked to respond for a moment, then gave in to the inevitable. _This is what I knew would happen. He's like a child with a sparkly new toy._ She returned as good as she got. Then, she felt Dave stop, and pull his face away. She opened her eyes, still punch-drunk from the kiss and eyed him questioningly.   


"Parole officer?" he asked.   


"Yep." She handed him a sheet of paper and added, "Don't be late." Then, she turned and sauntered away, jiggling her hips, leaving behind a very perplexed and turned on Lister.   


*******************

  


Rimmer jiggled his right leg, beating an arhymical tattoo on the deck, stopped, fidgeted with his sleeve cuff, stopped, ran his fingers through his hair, stopped, stood up abruptly and paced, exactly three steps forward and three back, sat down again, exhaled sharply through his nose, then began the process all over.   


Needless to say, he was more than a little nervous.   


It was 8:59 AM. He and Lister were seated in a small cubicle, awaiting their parole appointments. The cubicle had a door at one side and a sliding, frosted glass partition at the other. Along with the two military grey-green orthopedic (translation; bloody uncomfortable) chairs, these were the only outstanding features to the room. It had been designed to wear down the resistance of any people who had the severe misfortune to be called up for parole.   


It worked. Lister, upon entering the room, had seen a piece of penciled graffitti below the window. It had read, "Abandon all hop, you who enter here."   


Lister didn't particularly feel like hopping around, so whoever had written that had the right idea.   


Finally, after the sixth repetion of Rimmer's anxiety dance, Lister said mildly, "Would ya please sit the smeg down and stay still for thirty seconds. They're prob'ly monitoring us, and you look like a total goit."   


Rimmer, who was just in the middle of the "Running fingers through hair" section, stopped and lowered his hand. He eyed Lister with an incredulous look.   


"How can you act so calm, Lister? In approximately one minute, that window is going to open and a chipper, polished woman, probably named Candy, will call out your name. You'll then proceed to a small smokey room and be questioned, interrogated under hot lights. By somone who's nickname is, in all likelyhood, "Bonecrusher." He'll torture you, pound you, strip your soul bare. He'll leave you an empty husk of humanity, a worthless, sobbing, gelatinous blob, fit only to clean chicken soup out of gukky dispensors."   


"Not too much change then, eh?" came a voice from Lister's wrist.   


"Thanks bunches, Hol," sighed Lister.   


Holly bald visage gazed out of Lister's wristwatch, which had been modified to act as a remote sensor for the senile computer. Due to the present cicumstances, however, it was now his new home. His run-time was dramatically shortened because of this, as he didn't have access at all times to the mainframe. So the posse had worked out a stopgap solution. The only time Holly would attempt to hack back into the mainframe and contact them would be in the direst of dire emergencies.   


Or whenever he really, really felt like it.   


"Oi, dudes, what's happ'nin' then?"   


"Not much, Hol. Rimmer's just being his usual self. You know, a jammy bastard."   


"Ha ha," sneered Rimmer. "You'll sing a different tune when I'm proved right, me'laddo."   


"Rimmer, you've seen far too many gangster movies. I'm sure that our parole officers will be boring, beaurocratic paper pushers, who won't give us the time of day. They just wanna make sure we ain't gonna go bonkers and fill the cargo decks with Lime Jello. Right Hol?"   


"Actually, that's what I wanted to tell you, Dave. I've gotten your parole officer assignments. This is yours, Dave."   


On the tiny window of Lister's watch, a new face appeared. It was a large, black face, with tiny, close-set eyes, and a fierce mustache. A frightening scar ran down the face from the left temple all the way to the tip of the chin. Queeg, the "Backup Computer" of Red Dwarf, one of Holly's practical jokes, sprang intantly to Lister's mind. Under the face was a name and a few statistics.   


"Luther 'Dogmeat' Marone. Age: 35. Position: Security Officer 2nd class. Hobbies: Ju Jitsu (Black Belt); Armed Combat; Antique Weaponry; Crochet."   


Lister groaned. "You're joking, right? Please, Holly, tell me you're joking."   


Holly said, "Sorry, Dave. But look on the bright side. You can open your interview asking him how a bruiser like him managed to pick up such a granny hobby like crochet."   


Lister groaned again. "You're a great help, Hol. You should get a job writing for greeting card company." Lister put on a fake, syrupy accent and said, "To my dearest Aunt, Sorry about Uncle Robert and his secretary. I'm sure the insurance money will cover your trip to Antigua."   


Rimmer walked over to Lister, layed a hand on his shoulder and said, "Send my regards to that smokey room, Listy-poo." Rimmer was smirking, his eyes squinched shut, his nostrils flared.   


"Don't look so damn smug, Rimmer," said Lister. "You were wrong, after all."   


"How was I wrong?"   


"His nickname wasn't Bonecrusher."   


Rimmer ignored this last remark. "What about me, Holly? Who's my parole officer going to be?"   


Holly looked him in the eyes. "Well, I've got good news and bad news."   


Rimmer rolled his eyes. "Well, give me the bad news first."   


"You sure?"   


"Holly, I'm warning you. . ."   


"All right. You have the bad luck to draw Hollister."   


"Captain Hollister? Why's he my parole officer?"   


"Well, that's the rub..."   


Before Holly could tell Rimmer what exactly the rub was, the frosted window opened with a snap. Holly's face vanished from the watch, which annoyed Rimmer to no end.   


Behind the now open window, a lip-glossed face, which bore the nametag "Tiffany" underneath it, said impersonally, "Nine O' Clock. Lister, David, proceed to Interrogation Room B. Rimmer, Arnold Judas, proceed to Interrogation Room C." And with that, the window shut with a snap, just as the door opened with a whoosh.   


Rimmer and Lister stood up slowly, not making eye contact. They exited the cubicle and began a slow shuffle down the corridor toward their dooms.   


About halfway down the hall, Lister broke the silence at last and said, "Hey, at least you know Hollister isn't going to Judo chop you into submission."   


Rimmer nodded. "True. The only chop that fat bastard's familiar with is made of pork."   


Finally, regardless of the slow pace, they reached their destinations. "Interrogation Room B" was emblazoned on the door immediately to the right. Room C was just across the corridor. Lister paused outside, took a deep breath, glanced at Rimmer with a look that said, "Here goes nothing," and palmed the door open. Rimmer angled his neck so he could see inside the small, dimly lit room.   


Lister stepped inside, and the last thing Rimmer saw before the door closed was "Dogmeat" Marone, sitting at a desk, holding an open file in front of his eyes. Glancing up, the burly officer said in a growl, "Sit down, Lister. It's time for our little _'chat'_." Rimmer could hear the italics in the sentence. They spoke of hideous pain and a love of dealing it out. For a moment, Rimmer felt almost sorry for poor Lister.   


Almost.   


And the door swooshed shut.   


Steeling his resolve, Rimmer turned an abrupt about face and stared at the door marked "Interrogation Room C." Taking a deep breath, he remembered the time that he had poured a can of flouresent green paint all over Hollister's chicken suit. The captain had been wearing it for a costume party, but Rimmer had thought he had been hallucinating the whole thing.   


He hoped that the captain wouldn't hold it against him. Then he realized who exactly he was referring to.   


He was a dead man. He'd be back on Floor 13 in less time than it takes to say it.   


Rimmer placed his hand on the doorplate, closing his eyes, getting ready his favorite excuses to lay on the captain. "It wasn't my fault," topped the list, with "I didn't know what I was getting into," and, "I had a twinkie for breakfast that day," rounding out second and third places.   


He heard the door swoosh open, and opened his eyes.   


Captain Hollister was not in there.   


Instead, Rimmer was confronted with the sight of a woman, rather than the unattractive bulk of the captain. She wasn't in regulation uniform, but was dressed in an outfit that would cause a streetwalker to blush in shame and indignity. It wasn't lewd, rather it was just... ugly. Bright lavender everywhere, messy boots, a tee-shirt three sizes too small. Even her make up was sloppy, not having been blended properly near her ears. She had Rimmer's personal file open in her lap, and she was thumbing through it with a look of great amusement on her face. A half smoked cigarette dangled from her lips. Rimmer jumped to the obvious conclusion.   


"What the smegging hell are you doing here?" he asked as the door slid shut behind him.   


The girl glanced up at him, a question in her eyes. She exhaled a cloud of foul smoke and answered, "I beg your pardon?"   


"You heard! You obviously have the wrong parole room. I'm sure that if you go back over to the front office, they'll straighten you out in a jif. Although from the looks of that outfit, I doubt that anyone would be able to help you in your obviously deranged mental state."   


The girl's right eyebrow shot up, her eyes opening a little more. She took another drag on her cigarette. "Really?" she asked. "How do you know I'm not a violent sociopath who killed the last guy who poked fun at my clothes?"   


"Oh please," scoffed Rimmer. "I'm sure that whatever your crime was it was horrid and facinating and I'm sure that you're tough as all get out, but I for one really don't care. You don't want to mess with A.J. Rimmer, kiddo, believe you me! Besides, what the hell are you doing with my personal file?" He snatched it away from her lap before she could make a grab for it. "Having personal information of the crew is an offence, dearie. I should know."   


"You should, huh?" she asked, tapping her fingernails against the desk.   


"Yes, as I just spent two years on Floor 13 for it. And you shouldn't be smoking in here! It's against Space Core Directive number 31744." He grabbed the cigarette out of her mouth and ground it out under his boot before she could stop him. She stared at him, open mouthed. "Now, you be a good little girl and toodle on back to whatever hole you crawled out of. I've an important meeting with Captain Hollister right now."   


The girl recovered from her shock and started laughing hysterically. Rimmer felt slightly uncomfortable. This girl was obviously quite insane, and he regretted his braggarly stance of a moment ago. She finally recovered enough to gasp out, "Captain Hollister? You think you're parole appointment is with the captain?"   


"Yes, are you deaf as well as badly dressed?" The girl started laughing again. Having had enough of this, Rimmer continued. "So read my lips, BUG-GER OFF. And tell that lip-glossed woman up front to send in the captain already. Ta-ta." Then, her phrasing hit him. "What do you mean, 'I think' my appointment's with the captain? He's the only Hollister on the ship!"   


"No. Not exactly." She then leaned forward across the table, snatched the file out of Rimmer's hands and said, "Are you quite finished acting like a total fucking moron, Mr. Rimmer? Good. My name is Hippolyta Hollister. I'm your parole officer."   


*******************************************


	3. Chapter 2

*******************************************

  


Lister nervously sat down. He was faced with Dogmeat Marone, a sight that could put anybody off his lunch. His parole officer was a frightening sight. From the large, jagged scar that ran down his face, to the crisply, almost painfully clean and starched uniform that he wore, it was apparent that Marone was one bad mother...   


Who liked to crochet.   


Lister threw the officer a wan smile. Dogmeat looked Lister over like he was a small fish that had, one week previously, winged it's way to the land where dead fish were eternally welcome.   


After a moment of awkward silence, Lister cleared his throat and said, "So, what's on the agenda, mate? Do I have to tell you all about me mum and how I wanted to kill me dad and all... that... smeg..." He trailed off. Dogmeat was staring at him, with murder in his eyes. 

The officer said gravelly, "No. I'm not a p-uh-sigh-key-a-trist." He actually pronounced every single syllable. "I'm just the dude who's going to make your life a living hell for the next six months."   


Lister gulped, and unconsciously sank a little further down in his chair.   


Dogmeat stood up abruptly, manilla folder in hand, and circled around the table so he was standing over Lister. Then, he slapped the folder down on the table, bent forward at the waist and gripped Lister's jacket by the lapels, and pulled him up out of the chair. Then he threw him back down and said, "You sit up straight when you're in the room with me, you hear me, scumbag?"   


Lister tried not to faint. "Yes sir," he replied in a squeek.   


"Good! Now I've just one thing to say to you, banana breath. . ." He trailed off, pinning Lister with a stare that could have peeled the paint off of the wall.   


His brain had decided that NOW was a really great time to say, _Well, tough break man. I'll see you later, I'm running off to Baja._ Lister could only widen his eyes in fear.   


Dogmeat inched closer to Lister's face and said in a growl, "Do you have a light, man?"   


"Do I _what_?"   


And Dogmeat burst out laughing.   


"Oh, man, you should have _seen_ the look on your face! It was classic!" And with that confusing remark, Marone pulled a dishevelled pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket and proffered it towards Lister. "Do'yer smoke?"   


"Yeah, but. . ."   


"Great!" Marone pulled out two smokes and handed one to Lister. Lister took it, trying to cover the way his hand was shaking. He failed. Marone looked at him and said, "Oh man! What a jape! You looked like you were gonna wet yer pants!"   


"I think I did," responded Lister. He lit the cigarette and took a long, nerve steadying pull. _What the smeg was that all about, anyway?_ Lister thought.   


Marone must have seen the look on his face, and answered the unspoken question. "Sorry 'bout that, man. It's my way of testing the waters. A real bastard usually tries to out 'badass' me. You didn't. So you pass. No hard feelings, eh?" He extended his slab of a hand and grasped Lister in a finger-cruncher of a handshake. "Security Officer Vandross 'Dogmeat' Marone."   


"Dave Lister, Third Technician." Lister pulled his hand away and sureptitiously massaged it.   


"Yeah, I know. Nice to have a real face to put to the name. Your picture don't do you justice." He picked up the folder and opened it, so Lister could see his photograph. He looked like something the cat had dragged in in it. He remembered when that photo had been taken. He'd just come off shore leave, and was so hung over that he couldn't even remember Peterson's name. He'd called him Roger.   


Lister looked up with a grin. "So what are we to do, eh? Seriously this time, all right?"   


Marone returned the grin. "I just gotta take a blood sample, make sure that you ain't doing any illegal subsances, re-scan your retinas, take your fingerprints, get your inseam measurements..."   


Lister boggled at the security man. "Whoa, whoa. You gotta take me inseam?!"   


"Nah. Just joshing."   


Lister glared at Marone. Marone held his stare. Lister blinked first. "Ha. I win," giggled the big man.   


Lister could tell that this was going to be a _loooong_ day. . .   


**********************

  


Hollister settled back down in her chair, manilla folder open in hand. She started flipping through it again, a shit-eating grin on her face. Rimmer could only stare at her. After a long pause, he finally got his vocal cords back under control.   


"What?"   


"I'm. Your. Pah-role. Off-eh-cer." She enunciated every sound, like she was speaking to a mentally challenged child.   


Rimmer ignored the insult to his intelligence and went for the direct assault. "How? You hardly look old enough to vote, let alone be an officer!" We winged her, captian! Permission to go back for another try?   


"RHP," she answered, taking evasive manouvers.   


"RHP?" Incoming!   


"Relatives Have Privilages." Fire main gun. "Being the only and especially beloved neice of the captain does wonders for a couple of failing marks. Shame you never thought of that." Direct hit! Man the bilge pumps, we're taking on water!   


Now this was too much. Here, embodied in the plump figure sitting before him, was everything Rimmer despised about the Space Corps specifically and about life in general. She had all the lucky breaks he never did. Relations in the Corps, a privilaged background, a good education, a good sharp mind, youth... and... beauty.   


Oh yes. Rimmer admitted to himself that she was beautiful. Under that ridiculous get-up was a woman who was quite beautiful. If he were a poet, and in a better mood, he might compare her eyes to a sea at storm, her hair to the yellowest corn, her skin to a bottle of cream. But he wasn't a poet, so as it was he rather compared her eyes to a wet rat's fur, her hair to jaundice and her skin to a tin of yogurt.   


It really was unfortunate that her personality was so nasty to boot.   


Hollister didn't notice Rimmer's long stare, as she was too busy glancing through his file.   


"So, you stole top secret personal information, used it to try to smarm my uncle into promoting you. . ."   


"I did not smarm him!"   


She shot him a cold glance. "If your middle name wasn't Judas, it would be Smarmy. Now shut up. _I_ am talking." Rimmer pursed his lips together, which made him look like he was sucking a lemon. Hollister continued, "And when you were caught, you tried to pass the buck off on Lister, who, if his story is to be believed, is actually totally innocent of any information theft. Yes?"   


Rimmer remained silent. After a good ten seconds, which were filled with them glaring at each other, she continued again. "You were in the Canaries?"   


Rimmer remained silent. She raised an eyebrow at him and said, "Real mature, Mr. Rimmer. I suggest that you cooperate. I can send your ass back to Floor 13 like _that_." She snapped her fingers on the last word.   


Rimmer sighed. "Yes."   


"Yes what? You want me to send you back to Floor 13?"   


"Yes, I mean no! I was in the smegging Canaries."   


Hollister leaned forward. She dug a pristine pack of cigarettes out of the side pocket of her cargo shorts, took a smoke out of the pack and lit it up. She didn't offer one to Rimmer. Which annoyed him. _Well, yes, I would have turned her down, but she could have at least asked!_ he thought.   


"Mr. Rimmer, I highly reccomend that you drop the attitude. It does you no good." Rimmer bit back his comment, which was something along the lines of _You first, you little bitch._ She went on, "If I wanted to, I could make your life a living hell for the next six months. But I'd prefer not to go there." She took a drag on the ciggie. "I'm actually a very nice person, all reports to the contrary not withstanding."   


************************

  


Marone moved forward and wrapped a strap around Lister's upper arm, and was fiddling with the bulb attached by a long, rubber tube. Marone was taking Lister's blood pressure. Lister spoke up and said, "Hey, what's that thingy called anyway? The blood pressure taker, I mean?"   


"The blood pressure taker machine?" grinned Marone.   


Lister rolled his eyes. Forget a long day, this was going to be a long six months.   


************************

  


Now, two of Rimmer's left fingers were held in small metal clamps, and there were two diodes attached to his upper bicep. "What's this for?"   


Hollister tilted her head at Rimmer. "Polygraph. Now try not to get too nervous. Or I'll think you're lying through your teeth. Which you probably are." She glared at him as she pulled out a sheet of paper the length of her arm. It was covered with questions. Rimmer noticed the first one had to do with Communism, of all things.   


Rimmer rolled his eyes. This was getting ridiculous.   


************************

  


"Are you now, or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?" Marone sat back in his chair, giggling softly to himself.   


Lister began to realize that this bloke was several sandwiches short of a picnic. "Awwright, that does it. . ." he began, pulling on the clamps on his right hand. Marone cut him off, placing a beefy hand over Lister's, all gaiety gone from his face.   


"You gotta answer all these questions. And don't touch those again, Lister. I like you, and I'd hate to see you get electrocuted."   


Lister yanked his hand away, his mouth dropping in amazement. "Say what? Electrocuted?"   


"Yeah," answered Marone. "Basic security measure. You try to escape from this room, or do anything unauthorized, you'll get a nasty little jolt." Suddenly, Marone's entire demeanor changed. Glancing down at his hands, he squirmed uncomfortably. Then Lister watched in flabbergasted shock as Marone reached behind himself and pulled up a tangle of pink and baby blue yarn and a crochet hook. He looked almost furtive, as this were a nasty habit that you had to hide from your Mum.   


He began to crochet.   


Lister sat, mesmerised, watching the hook wrap round, and through and over and under the yarn, making knots. Marone didn't even glance over at the list of questions at the table. As if he was doing it from memory.   


"Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the Communist Party?"   


***************************

  


"No."   


Hollister was filing her nails, the very picture of boredom. She did not look at the list. "Can you whistle Dixie?"   


"What?" asked Rimmer. "No. What a stupid. . ."   


"Is your mother's name Marie?"   


"No." That question made more sense, but was still damn stupid.   


"Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"  


"I don't know! Look, you're making these up, aren't you?" With that, Rimmer yanked the clamps off his fingers.   


As soon as the clamps left his skin, he felt the force of several dozen volts fly up through his arm, across his chest, and run the hundred metre dash around the track of his body. It was as if he'd been hit with a tazer. He slumped to the floor, still shaking from the jolt. Trying to figure out how it had been done, he realized stupidly that he'd not removed the diodes from his bicep at the same time, and had closed a circuit, or something. And then he hated his brain for calling up such inane trivia when he was in such considerable pain.   


Hollister didn't say a word, she just put down her emery board, stood up, crossed over to Rimmer's limp form and clamped the device back onto Rimmer's fingers. Then, she hauled him bodily back into the chair. Rimmer weighed at least 190 pounds, and Hollister slid in under 130. _She's strong!_ thought Rimmer through a haze of agony. She sat back down at her chair. She said, "Whenever you're ready, Mr. Rimmer."   


It took a moment for Rimmer to regain his senses, and when he did, he gasped out, "You could've warned me."   


"What, and spoil my fun?" She picked up the nail file and began on her left middle finger, which was obscenely high and alone and aimed at Rimmer.   


"Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"   


**********************************

  


The questions went on for several hours. The gist of them were, basically, to make sure that the parolee wasn't psychotic, deranged, unstable or a pathalogical liar. They were to get a general feel of the workings of the minds of the freed prisoners.   


When they were finally over, Lister felt as if he'd run a marathon in 105 degree heat and near 100 percent humidity. He was sweating, shaking, and breathing hard. He felt totally drained. He could only imagine what Rimmer had gone through with the captain.   


"So, Lister, who's your big eared mate across the hall?"   


"That's Rimmer. He's got the captain, right?"   


"The captain? Naw, mate, he got Hippolyta Hollister. She's one nasty little slitch. Don't cross her."   


Lister couldn't believe his ears. Marone thought someone was tougher than himself? Then it hit him. "Wait, hang on? Rimmer's parole officer is a woman? That bastard!"   


Marone gaped at Lister. "He's a bastard, all right. A miserable one, unless I miss my guess." Marone leaned in and said, "Look, she's had ten prisoners in the last three months. Of those ten, three are re-incarcerated and four others went space crazy. The other three are too scared to talk about her. I hope your friend likes prison food, because odds are he's sure to be eating a lot more of it."   


"No way, eh? She wouldn't just up and re-can him for no reason?"   


"That woman is so cold that she makes the Arctic look like a temperate zone. She's so tough that she could fight a rabid wolverine, and win hands down. She's so mean that if you lay dying in the street, she'd kick you in the ribs for being in her way in the crosswalk."   


Lister tried very hard to feel bad for Rimmer. He managed a small twinge of pity, but that was it. Really, it was Rimmer's fault after all that they landed in prison in the first place. And would it really be so smegging bad to get rid of Rimmer once and for all?   


Yeah, it would. Damn it, when did he turn out to have a real concience? "Well, is there anything you could do? I mean, get him re-assigned, maybe?   


Marone looked at Lister out of the corners of his eyes. "I can't promise anything, Dave. Look, keep your nose clean, and I'll see what I can do." Marone stood up, cracked his back, and handed Lister a small silver dangly thing. It looked like a miniature pocket watch. "You wear this at all times, right? Like round your belt, or summit. It helps me keep track of you. If you ever need to get in touch with me, or vice versa, just turn it on like this," Marone toggled the dial on the side, "Talk into it and I'll come a-running."   


"This isn't going to be too intrusive, is it?" asked Lister, toggling it back off, with his mind on the liasons that he had with Kochanski were sure to have later. He _definitely_ didn't want any interuptions duing those little outings!   


"Naw, mate. I'll only contact you if there's any problems, and I don't expect any from you. You're a good bloke, Lister. You'll be just fine."   


Lister got the impression that Marone was saying this for his own benefit. Then Lister realized he had it all wrong. Marone was saying this to warn Lister. To tell him subtly that if he ever stepped out of line, the officer would be all over him like a cheap suit.   


Lister nodded, and made his way towards the door. Marone fell in behind him.   


**************************

  


Rimmer felt the hours of his life slipping away like the proverbial sand through the proverbial glass. He was _positive_ that Hollister had asked him the same question at least three times. Maybe she had. She was such a little brat that she could very well be doing it to spite him.   


Finally, it was over. She glanced at him and said, "There now. That wasn't too bad, was it?"   


Rimmer could only moan. His vocal cords were shot. How she managed to sound so fresh, so pristine after hours of interogation was beyond him. And she was a smoker, too! She suddenly smiled, which instead of making Rimmer feel more cheeful, depressed him immensely. She said, "This is for you." She handed him a silver thing that looked like a pocket watch, only much smaller. "I will be making surprise inspections. Consider yourself lucky that I warned you. I usually don't. But I think I like you, Mr. Rimmer."   


Rimmer could only imagine what she did to people she hated. Maybe she just shot them.   


"So off you go, 'Mi'laddo.'" she said, doing a spot on impression of Rimmer's voice. "Don't let your soup get cold." She added the last with another one of her shit-eating grins.   


"That was just mean," whined Rimmer. He knew that she was refering to the Gazpacho soup incident.   


"Life is mean, Mr. Rimmer. Get used to it." She stood up and grasped Rimmer's hand, intent on helping him up, showing him out.   


At that moment, he felt a thrill of something like electricity run through him. He thought for a second that he was being shocked again, but then he saw the look on her face. She looked genuinely startled, as if her whole world had suddenly gone from black and white to blinding technicolor.   


As for Rimmer, he felt as if the Universe took a left turn. She was holding his hand. She was holding his hand, and he was enjoying it. And from the look of her, she was enjoying it too.   


She had touched him hours before, when she had pulled him back into the chair. But that was a touch that was only appropriate in an ambulance. There had been no thrill there, no spark of recognition.   


Like there was now.   


Then, suddenly, she yanked her hand away. She blinked for a moment, and shook her head to clear the cobwebs away. Then she said, "I'll see you to the door."   


Coldly. Aloofly. As if the last thirty seconds had never happened.   


Rimmer adopted her attitude. He couldn't possibly let her see the whirlwind of emotion that was blowing through his mind. "I can see myself out, thanks."   


"Fine. Have a nice evening, Rimmer. I'll be checking up on you soon." She stalked out of the room before him, leaving Rimmer in her tobacco scented wake.   


But he noticed that she had dropped the "Mister" off of his name.   


*******************************************


	4. Chapter 3

 

*******************************************

  


Hollister swept out of the room. She nearly ran into Lister and his parole officer coming out of the opposite chamber. She shot the other officer a quick, mocking salute, said, "Howdy, Moron," and was gone around the corner.   


Marone yelled after her, "It's MARONE, Hollister! How many times do I have to tell you?"   


"Whatever!" came the response from far away. Marone made a funny gurgling sound in the back of his throat and stormed off the opposite direction.   


Lister and Rimmer exchanged glances. Lister was the first to break the silence.   


"So, how'd it go?"   


"Splendidly," sneered Rimmer, sarcasm dripping from his voice. The two men made their way down the corridor and out the exit. "First, I insulted her outfit."   


Lister bit his lip, then nodded nodded. "Yeah, that get up was a bit bizzarre." Rimmer eyed Lister, who was currently wearing his leather deerstalker and the t-shirt that said, "Sit on my face." Rimmer rolled his eyes and continued.   


"To top that off, I called her mentally unstable, criminally insane, and refused to talk to her. And finally, she's Captain Hollister's niece. Who, apparently, failed a couple of her exams. They made her an officer anyway." Rimmer paused for a moment at the entrance to the TurboLift, and turned to Lister. "I'm doomed, aren't I?"   


In response, Lister grinned. "Not necessarily. It could have been worse. You could have given her a cloth and hair eating virus." Rimmer groaned. Another point against him, there. Lister continued, "Beides, at least she's sane. Marone is many cards shy of a full deck."   


"Sane?!?" exploded Rimmer. "She's absolutely starkers! She let me get electrocuted!"   


"No way, get outta town!"   


"I'm serious! She neglected to warn me about the current running through the finger clamps. I looked like a deranged marionette on meth."   


"Yeah, but does she crochet?"   


"I highly doubt that that girl has the mental capacity or motor skills to tie her own shoes," sneered Rimmer.   


"You sound like you love her, man."   


"Give me five minutes alone with her and a bazookoid. Please, God, that's all I ask!" prayed Rimmer, his head tilted to the ceiling. They entered the TurboLift and swept downwards towards their quarters.  




**************

  


Lister gasped.   


The room he was in was quite dark. He could hardly see an inch in front of his face, but he was sure that Kochanski had just pulled away from their kiss and had bent her head downwards. Intent upon. . . exactly what Lister didn't know, but he sure as hell was eager to find out.   


He felt a strange, warm sensation spread across the front of his boxers. And Kochanski was the source of that warmth. At least, he hoped that she was. After a moment, it faded away, to be replaced with the sensation of Kochanski's mouth upon his again. Lightly, softly, as if she didn't want to break him. He ran his tongue over his lips after she pulled back.   


"What the hell was that?" he managed to gasp between ragged breaths.   


"A warm fuzzy," came the husky reply.   


"Good name!"   


"Isn't it, though?"   


She pressed her nearly naked body up against his, snuggling her head into the soft area where his arm met his shoulder. At that moment, Lister felt as if he would float away into the inky depths of space, to fly and soar among the stars. Life was GOOOOOD!   


He and Kochanski had been at it now for about 6 hours. It had begun innocently enough, when Dave had come to her to invite her to lunch. After a quick recap of his time in "Interrogation Room B" and Marone's off kilter insanity, he'd planted a small, feather light kiss on the back of her neck. Which was her absolute, no-kidding, take-me-now-you-stud spot, and he knew it. This tender gesture had resulted in the two of them blowing off their work shifts (Kochanski was due at Navigation, Lister at technician HQ, which was really the abandoned broom closet at the end of corridor 42), and heading to Kochanski's quarters for a long day of lovemaking, interspersed with the occasional potty break and once to fetch back a couple of chicken vindaloos from the nearby dispensor.   


They hadn't spent a day like this in over three million years, and instead of it seeming tired and samey, it seemed sparkling and brand new. Kochanski was continually amazed at the intensity of the feelings surging through her. The Dave from her home universe had never been this obsessed, this utterly devoted to her. She had never been with a man who really loved her, loved her to the point that he would walk across molten lava just to fetch her back her favorite hair scrunchie. Metaphorically speaking, of course. This devotion on Lister's part made for an amazing aphrodisiac. Her passions were fanned by this single minded persuit of her happiness.   


She realized, of course, that this wouldn't last. Lister would pull the typical guy thing and say, "I need my space, and by 'my space' I mean I want to boff a teenager for the next few months." She also knew that this obsession of his was fueled by nearly 10 years (by his subjective time) of utter, mind-numbing, and impossible lonliness. However, she could live with that. It wasn't nescessarily a bad thing. It had startled her to understand the level of his obsession. She had never thought of herself as an object for a foolish and lust crazed fixation. She knew she was no great shakes. For one thing, she was picky. And career oriented. And spoiled, sometimes. But Lister loved her even more for all of that. She suddenly realized what a fool she was not to have started this relationship earlier, when they were trapped on the 'Bug, and no bureaucratic officers would interfere with their happiness. Well, maybe one neurotic droid... By now, they would be firmly entrenched in love (or at least very strong lust), and their parole officers would take that into account, and they wouldn't have to sneak around like a couple of hormone addled teenagers.   


But she hadn't, and they didn't, and now they had to.   


It was only three weeks now. Since they were "Officially Going Out." Two weeks before their sentences were up, they had shared one magical evening together, crammed in a spare linen closet, kissing, groping, maddened to heights of sweeping desire by the smell of laundry detergent and cool cotton sheets. The next morning had been hard, but they had eventually gotten past the awkward phase and moved right into the giggly stupid snoggy phase. And it was great. Small doubts still nagged at Kochanski's late night thoughts, but she usually ignored them. Like the, "I need my space," thought.   


She sighed slightly and snuggled closer to Lister's warm body. She put all thoughts of the future out of her head, and lived for the now.   


Lister, on the other hand, had his eyes closed and was trying not to get too aroused. Again. He was continually amazed at how lucky he was. Here she was, Kristine Kochanski, in the warm, squirming and soft flesh. In bed with him. She was, without a doubt, the most desirable, fantastic, beautiful woman in the history of mankind, (at least, in his eyes...) and she had chosen him to share her bed, her life, her love.   


Oh, yes, life was very good. Except for the sneaking around part. He didn't want to quarrel with her (perish the thought!), but the idea that he had to hide his love for her pricked at his pride.   


But, what the hell, if it made her happy, or more comfortable, or whatever, then it was hunkey-dorey by him.   


"Kris?"   


"Yeah, Dave?   


"What'cha thinking 'bout?"   


Kochanski loved it when Dave slurred his apostrophies. "Us."   


"Yeah? Me too. Anything specific?"   


"You're very single minded. And you know what you like. And we mesh well that way."   


"Flattery will get you everywhere, lady."   


"I know. It already has."   


This remark led to the two of them tickling, nipping, licking, removing all underclothes and being disgracefully noisy.   


For about three minutes.   




****************

  


Rimmer put down the book he had been reading, entitled _Officerhood; Not All It's Cracked Up To Be._ It depressed him something awful. It was now 2330 by the ship's chrono. Lister had dissapeared after their appointments, promising Rimmer he'd be back later to discuss the day's events. That had been 12 hours ago.   


Rimmer wondered idly where the smeghead was at.   


He hated to admit it, but he was very lonely. So lonely, in fact, that he'd seek out Lister's company. It wasn't the company he really wanted, however...   


Firmly putting that little blonde bitch out of his mind, Rimmer swung his lengthy legs off the bunk, and went in search of Lister. Now, where were Kochanski's quarters again...? Maybe she would know...   


*****************

  


Lister and Kochanski were quite distracted when the door swooshed open and a masculine voice snapped, "Lights!" Lister and Kochanski swam and struggled in the sheets, eyes slowly adjusting to the brightly lit room and the form of Rimmer standing shocked in the open doorway.   


"RIMMER!!" roared Lister. "Get the smeg out of here!"   


Kochanski got into the act by flinging a pillow at the tall man, while she fumbled to cover her bare breasts with the blanket.   


Rimmer stared at the two lovers for the briefest of moments, turned a shade of pink that should be physiologically impossible and fled.   


The door swooshed closed behind him. Lister and Kochanski turned to each other, eyes flashing, mouths agape. They didn't know what to say. What could they say? This was bad.   


Then it got worse. A small, tenative knock came at the door.   


Kochanski looked at Lister and said, "Oh, we're in trouble. I'm willing to bet you one hundred dollarpounds that that's my parole officer."   


"How do you know?"   


"Women's intuition. Quick, you need to hide!" And with that, she jumped up, grabbed Lister's hand and shoved him, butt naked, into her storage locker. It was a tight fit, and Lister almost got his nadgers caught in the door. Standing in the dark, Lister was very afraid of capture, simply because being caught stark raving naked in a female superior officer's storage locker was, while not exactly against the rules, definitely frowned upon. Suddenly, the locker door opened again. For a brief, happy moment, Lister thought that he and Kochanski were in the clear. But she reached past him, grabbed a light bathrobe and slammed the door again. He groaned softly. He was in big trouble.   


Kochanski, meanwhile, pulled the robe on, tied it tightly, swept a towel off the floor and wrapped it, turban style, round her head. She called out, "Coming!" and moved to open the door.   


It was Rimmer again. He said, with a big grin, "Don't get dressed on my account. Where's Lister?"   


She stared at him for a moment. Then, she stormed across the room and flung open the locker door, revealing a very surprised and chilly Lister. She stalked back to Rimmer and did something very out of character.   


She slapped him full across the face. She shouted, "Next time, knock, you smeghead!" Then she huffed off to her shower, and slammed the glass partition, nearly breaking it.   


Rimmer stood there for a moment, rubbing his cheek in shock. Lister emerged from the locker, with a stuffed toy placed strategically across his groin. The men looked at each other for a moment, then averted their eyes, embarrassed beyond words.   


Well, Rimmer was. Lister was murderously angry.   


"I'm. Going. To. KILL. You. Rimmer." Lister growled, and crossed to the bunk, picking up his boxers. He turned his back on Rimmer, mooning him, and pulled on the shorts. Rimmer couldn't say anything to this, he just moved to the table and sat down, still rubbing his offended cheek.   


After a pause, Rimmer said, "Sorry."   


"Sorry! You barge into Krissy's quarters with no warning and all you say is sorry? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't punch you in the gob."   


"Because it would hurt?"   


Lister pulled back a fist.   


"And because she already did, practically." said Rimmer hastily. "Besides, I had no idea that was going on! She just told me last night that you two weren't an item. How was I supposed to know?"   


Lister lowered his fist. There it was, out in the open. The very reason that he hadn't wanted to hide his affair with Kochanski. Ignoring Rimmer's excuses, he crossed the room and opened the glass door to the shower, wanting to talk to Kochanski.   


She was crying.   


Without hesitation, Lister moved to her and grabbed her in his arms. She shoved him away, and continued her heaving sobs. Sobs? No, giggles! She was laughing!   


"Oh, Dave, I'm so sorry," she finally managed to say between gasps for air. "The look on your face. . .!"   


Lister stood for a moment, blinking stupidly. Then, he said, "Well, at least you find it humourous."   


"If I wasn't laughing, I'd be crying. And you know it."   


"I thought you were crying," Lister admitted. "You've got a really whacked out sense of humour, you know that, right?"   


Kochanski ran her sleeve across her nose, very much like a little girl at that moment. Then, her pinball smile lit up the stall and she threw her arms around Lister's neck. They held each other for a moment, and then she pulled back and said, "Dave, you were right. Let's not sneak around anymore. To hell with our parole officers!"   


Lister whooped for joy. "You mean it, Kris?"   


She grinned at him in answer. With that, Lister swept her up in his arms and swung her around the stall, during which he banged her head against the nozzle. "OW!!" He swung her back down and made little cooing noises over her while he kissed her forehead repeatedly. She blushed prettily, and gave back as good as she got. _He's really very sweet,_ she thought, _although a bit like an over-excited puppy dog. . ._   


"Heh-HEM!" came an annoyed grunt from the other room. "You do have company!"   


"C'mon." Lister took Kochanski's hand and led her out of the shower. "I really would have it otherwise, but Rimmer can be the first to know."   


"I think he already does."   


"What ever gave you that idea?" said Lister with a grin.   


***********************

  


Rimmer eyballed the two lovers. His eyes were slits of hazel, his already big nostrils flared to gargantuan proportions. He was breathing in and out, in and out, an almost Zen-like trance decending upon him. He swiveled his gaze towards towards his hands. No new information there... Finally, defeat in his eyes and voice, he said, "I fold."   


"Ditto." said Lister.   


"Excellent! Come to Mama!" Kochanski swept her arms out, pulled the bright chips into a pile and gathered them in her lap. "And I was bluffing on a busted flush. Really, you boys are too trusting. Now, who wants to give me more money?"   


The three of them sat round a table. They were playing poker. Kochanski was over her mad, and Lister had explained the situation to Rimmer, who, after a moment of crestfallen silence, had agreed to play chaperone for them. He had only agreed to do it for the blackmail opportunities, of course... So, to forgive and forget the slapping, Kochanski had suggested an impromtu round of poker. Lister had voted for the strip variety, and Rimmer had enthusiastically seconded the motion. They were outvoted by Kochanski, by means of superiority. Lister shrugged it off, but resolved to get her drunk at some point and ask her again.   


At Kochanski's brag, Lister snorted and drawled, in a bad American accent, "Ante up! Five card draw is the name of the game. One eyed Jacks and red duces wild."   


Kochanski shrugged. "You really must like losing to a girl, eh?"   


Lister ignored her and delt the cards as he did everything else; sloppily. At one point, Kochanski had to stand up and cross the room to fetch a runaway card. To bad it landed face down. . .   


Finally, the hand was delt. Rimmer began his poker ritual, as Kochanski and Lister groaned in unison.   


Now, a quick word as to Rimmer's poker ritual. Rimmer played poker like he did everything else; anal retentive and perfect. First, he organised his cards into color, then suit, then number. Then, he folded his cards shut and re-fanned them, spacing them all exactly 1 cm apart from the next. This part went on for about three to five minutes. Meanwhile, Kochanski and Lister would just take the opportunity to do some light snogging, or they would clean their nails, or they would compose a funny limerick about Rimmer, trying to find a rhyme for "Goit". Rimmer would ignore them. Finally, after squinting at the cards for several minutes, and ignoring the occasional, "Get ON with it!" from Lister, Rimmer would lay down ALL of his cards and say, "Five please."   


Therein followed a debate from Lister that in five card draw you COULDN'T put down all your cards, the limit was four. And Rimmer would come back saying that if the game was called FIVE card draw, he jolly well could draw five cards. Lister would then point out politely that the "five" only came into it because that was the number of cards you could have in any given hand. Rimmer would then ripost that if those were the rules, then Lister should have said that at the beginning of the game. Lister finally would call Rimmer a total smeghead, and Rimmer would call Lister a jammy goit, and Lister would wave the rules pamphlet at Rimmer and Rimmer would grab it, crumple it into a ball and throw it across the room. Kochanski would get sick of it, reach over, take the deck, snippily count out five cards and toss them at Rimmer. Rimmer would then go through his card counting ritual again, while Lister would give Kochanski her new cards and he'd take his own, all the while grumbling about Rimmer's total smeggy gittiness.   


Somehow, it never occured to them to not allow Rimmer to be to Dealer's Right. Or to let Kochanski deal. They would do this every time.   


But what the smeg? When you're in space, no one can hear you bicker.   


Lister, to allivate the tension while Rimmer pondered his cards, made the offhand remark of, "So, has Hollister come a-calling on you yet, Rimmer?"   


Without looking up, Rimmer said, "I don't want to talk about it."   


Now, this is exactly the sort of thing you should _never_ say to David Lister, because he will run with it like a footballer. Especially if you're Arnold Judas Rimmer giving him the ball.   


"I don't see why not," began Lister innocently. "I mean, just because she's obviously imbalanced while at the same time being incredibly violent, that shouldn't mean you don't like her."   


"Shut up and call, Lister."   


"You know, she's actually quite attractive, in a psychotic and unstable sort of way."   


"Lister!" interjected Kochanski.   


"Aw, she doesn't hold a candle to you, honey." Kochanski looked mollified. "But still, eh? Wink wink, nudge nudge, know what I mean? Rimmer, you should ask her out on a date."   


"Shut up, Lister, and call. . ."   


Kochanski spoke up. "Actually, Rimmer, that's probably not a bad idea. I'm sure you two would get on famously, after the scars from the initial beatings had healed."   


Rimmer said nothing to this last. After all, it was Kochanski... but Rimmer's face got a little more purple.   


Lister pulled his cigarette out of his ear and lit it up. "Seriously," he giggled around a mouthful of butt, "she's a real piece of work! And, hey, she's the captain's niece. That'd be aces for your career!"   


Rimmer said nothing for a long moment. The purple of his face spread down to his neck and his hands began to tremble. Lister and Kochanski watched with fascinated wonder, waiting for the inevitable explosion.   


It never came. Instead, Rimmer closed his eyes and sighed. The purple receded and the shaking stopped. Then without warning. . .   


"Lister, either call the smegging hand or fold already."   


Lister was impressed. He'd never seen Rimmer stem the rage before. This was an intreguing turn of events. So Lister, being himself, decided to push the envelope just that little bit further.   


"Oh, I fold. But only if you tell me what you honestly think about Hippo Hollister."   


"HER NAME IS HIPPOLYTA! NOT HIPPO!!!" screeched the infuriated Second Technician. Lister and Kochanski jumped at the intensity of the scream. Rimmer was purple again and the shaking had returned. "Her name is not Letty, or Polly, or Heply or any other combination of silly nicknames you can think up, you rabid piece of parrot droppings!"   


Rimmer stood up and threw his cards down on the table, sending them scattering over the room. Lister could only watch as Rimmer threw a major wobbly. Rimmer continued.   


"Yes, she's the smegging captian's smegging niece! And yes, she's very attractive." He was pacing the room, and stopped with his back to the door. This was unfortunate, because the door opened at that very moment to reveal the woman that Rimmer was ranting on about. There she stood in the doorway, and Rimmer was oblivious to this simple fact. So the next few words out of his mouth were equally disasterous.   


"Rimmer. . ." began Kochanski. Rimmer cut her off.   


"I don't want to hear anything out of you! You've got your man, so what the smeg do you care about me?!?!" Kochanski sat there, stunned. Rimmer had just totally blown their cover, right in front of an officer. Kochanski slumped down in her chair, wishing she were invisible.   


"Erm, Rimmer man. . ." began Lister. Rimmer sliced a hand through the air to silence him.   


"As for you! I want you to know that I would never go out on a date with "Hippo" Hollister! She's my parole officer! She couldn't give a flying rat's arse about me. She's cruel, she's sarcastic, she's foul tempered, she has a career, and by god if she doesn't have the ugliest personality I've ever encountered!"   


"Rimmer!" exclaimed Kochanski in a panic. She was looking directly at Hippolyta, who was simply cocking an eyebrow skywards, her eyes two storm grey slits, fixed directly on Rimmer.   


"With all due respect, ma'am, shut UP!" shouted Rimmer. "I mean to have my say, and you two will smegging well listen!" He leaned forward across the table and hissed at the two lovers, "My love life is none of your business. Keep your filthy noses out of it! Yes, I may have something for her." At this remark, Hippolyta's eyebrow went up even further, but her eyes widened instead of narrowed. "Even though she's a bitch." (Narrow eyes.) "But it will never go anywhere. She'd tear my heart out and feed it to rabid hedgehogs before she'd be caught dead with me." (Wide eyes.) "So I'd appreciate it if you two lovebirds, with all your coy sneaking around and being all snoggy, just left me alone!"   


And Rimmer spun around. He wanted to leave the room. But his way was blocked by the petite blonde form that he'd only met 15 hours earlier and had caused his heart to palpitate repeatedly in the intervening time.   


They stared at each other for a very long moment.   


"Well. You certainly know how to put your foot in it, don't you?"   


And with that remark, she spun on heel and left the room.   


And he sank to the deck, his mouth open, making slight moaning noises in the back of his throat. _Oh my God. What have I done?_ he thought to himself. He began to cry, not caring that Lister and Kochanski saw.   


Lister and Kochanski could only stare at him.   


Moments passed. The door swooshed open again. Rimmer looked up, half hoping, half dreading that it would be her, that she'd come back to demand an explanation, to abuse him, to hold him. Anything. But it wasn't her.   


It was Kryten.   


The mechanoid took in the scene, and said, "I'm sorry, sirs, ma'am. Is this a bad time?" 

*******************************************

 


	5. Chapter 4

*******************************************

  


"Sirs, Ma'am, is this a bad time?"   


Lister, Rimmer and Kochanski could only stare at the mechanoid.   


Rimmer got control of his raging bile duct, stood up and dashed a fist across his cheeks, wiping away the tears. "No, Kryten. No problems at all. I got something in my eyes, is all. Lister's cigarette smoke. You know." He affected a hacking cough, waving his hand in front of his nose. "Horrible stuff, that cigarette smoke."   


Kryten cocked his head curiously, seeming to sniff the air. "Really, Sir? That's curious. I don't detect any smoke in this room. The oxygen-to-foreign-particles ratio is less than 2 parts in 10 billion. Are you sure that it was the cigarettes...?"   


"Oh, shut the smeg up, you overgrown can opener," snapped Rimmer. He flew towards the door and was gone. Lister jumped up and went after him, but when he got out the door, Rimmer was nowhere in sight.   


Lister gently slammed his fist into the bulkhead. "Damn," he whispered. For Rimmer to admit that he actually _liked_ someone... and for it to go so disasterously wrong...   


Kryten looked after Lister with wonder. "I'm sorry sir, was he telling the truth? Or was Mr. Rimmer realy crying because you caught him cheating at poker?"   


Lister waved a hand at Kryten, half placating, half annoyed. Kryten knew when to take a hint. He turned back into the room proper, picking up a dust bunny as he went. Lister stood for a moment looking down where Rimmer had disappeared to. For all the teasing and joking and bickering that Lister instigated with Rimmer, (and vice-versa, of course...) Lister actually cared about Rimmer.   


He couldn't tell exactly when _it_ had begun. Sometime after the "old" Rimmer had gone off to become Ace. And then there had been The Dream, which he'd never told anybody about, not even Krissy. Which, he supposed, was all for the best, really.   


When the nano-bots had re-created the Dwarf, and resurected the crew, it hadn't even occured to Lister that Rimmer would be included in the list of the dead. Of course, he should have, what with Rimmer whinging on about being dead constantly. But, lo and behold, there he was, very much alive, in the tall, gangling, large nostrilled flesh. He was exactly the same. The same smeg-head that Lister remembered. There was no trace of the man who could become Ace Rimmer there. There was only the smugness, the cruelty, the cowardess, the banality, the...   


Well, no point in listing them all. We could be here all night.   


And yet, for all of that, Lister found that he still cared.   


Of course, there was the time that Rimmer had tried to sleep with Krissy, on the ship where Cassandra had set up shop...   


A small red cloud descended over Lister's vision. _I know that he was doing what he thought was supposed to happen. But did he have to keep her bra afterwards?_ he thought to himself. _One of these days, he may very well have an "accident."_   


He was shifted out of his reverie by a hand on his shoulder. He turned his head, and looked right into Krissy's big brown eyes. He sighed, and lowered his fist from the bulkhead.   


"It's not your fault, you know." She smiled gently at him. "Rimmer is messed up in ways that nobody could help. That was entirely his fault."   


"I know, Kris, but... Well, if I hadn't brought it up..."   


"Still, you couldn't know that she'd overhear."   


Lister blinked. "Wait a minute, why'd she show up anyway? How'd she know he was in here? These are _your_ quarters!"   


It was Kochanski's turn to blink. "I don't know. Hang on..."   


"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" asked Lister, his eyes growing wide with an unpleasant thought.   


"God, I sincerely hope not. Because I'm thinking that you turned on your communications pocket watch thing..."   


As one, they turned and dashed into the room. They began hunting for the device, ignoring Kryten's confused pleas for enlightenment as to what it was they were looking for.   


"Where is it, where is it?" muttered Lister, throwing aside the poker chips and cards on the table, looking for that tell-tale glint of silver.   


"I don't know, I don't know!" wobbled Kochanski, rooting through the towel and sheet laden floor, searching for a glowing green indicator light that would show that the device was on.   


"Sir, Ma'am..."   


"Not now, Kryten!" huffed Lister, who was digging through his pockets, pulling out all sorts of nasty paraphenailia that looked like it had been through the Laundry Day of the Damned.   


"But Sir, Ma'am..."   


"Kryten, please! Now is not a good time!" whined Kochanski, as she ran into the bathroom, throwing aside bottles of goo that could be hiding the thing behind them.   


"Sir, Ma'am, I really do think..."   


"WHAT IS IT, KRYTEN?!?" they screamed together.   


"I do believe that you're being contacted on the senso-matic watch here." Kryten held up the "dust bunny" that he'd picked up earlier. Lo and behold, there was the device, glowing brightly. Lister and Kochanski dashed over to the mechanoid, and snatched it away from him.   


Lister peered into it. And peering right back at him were the craggy features of Marone. And he did not look too happy.   


"Lister," came his bass voice, made tinny by the lousy hardware within, "You and Miss Kochanski will report to me in the captain's quarters at thirteen hundred tomorrow afternoon. I wish to speak to you both about your 'relationship.'" And then he was gone as the device went dead.   


*******************

  


Hippolyta was seated in her quarters, smoking her sixteenth cigarette of the day. She was surrounded by objects, that, in any other person's room, would serve the purpose of brightening it up, making it looked lived in. A poster for a popular rock-hip hop-grunge metal band. A bookshelf, totally filled with classic, first edition books, like The Fountainhead, and collected short stories of Theodore Sturgeon. A few mostly used candles. A stuffed monkey with bunny ears. To the casual observer, the room looked loved. Filled with personality.   


To the critical eye, however, the details were slightly off. A sheen of dust here. An un-opened book there. Exact and perfect drips down the sides of the candles, like they had never been burned, but bought off the shelf that way. The poster had only one pin-hole in each corner, suggesting that it had gone up once, and then been forgotten about. And so on.   


The only part of her quarters that looked even remotely disturbed was her closet. All of the clothes were on the floor. The hangers stood empty, soldiers lined up for a war that never took place. Her official JMC uniform was buried somewhere in the bottom of the pile. She hadn't worn it in two years.   


She sat in her brightly lit room, inhaling her niccotine stick, not blinking, even though the smoke made her eyes water and burn. She was staring off into middle distance...   


*********

  


_She was fifteen. Her uncle Frank Hollister had just been promoted to Captain, and his first assignment was a ship that had just been commissioned. The Red Dwarf. Her father, Peter, was throwing a giant shindig in her Uncle's honor. She stood in the midst of the crowd, wearing a dress that was appropriate if you happened to be a street walker. Her mother, Aphrodite, was rather miffed at her choice of dress, but had had the sense not to cross wills with her stubborn and iconoclastic daughter. Affy, as she was known to her friends, was studiously ignoring her. Hippolyta danced with a few young men, cadets in the academy. They asked her what she wanted to do when she "grew up." She responded with the truth. She was studying... Blah, blah blah. The cadets paid her no mind, but instead took every opportunity to glance down her already impressive cleavage. She was flattered. She allowed herself to be led to the punch bowl, which was being presided over by her tipsy father. He handed her a sweet punch, given to her in a sparkling cup. It contained vodka. She did not have any experience with alcohol. When the room started to spin, she put it down to her dancing, and had another cup of punch. And a third..._   


**************

  


Hippolyta glanced at the clock on her wall. It was nearly midnight. She hadn't finished any of her paperwork. Of the four prisoners assigned to her tender ministrations, three were swiftly floating down the river of re-incarceration. The fourth was... Rimmer.   


Rimmer. Fuck.   


**************

  


_"Peter, she's drunk."   
_

"How could she be drunk? She's only fourteen!"   


"Fifteen, Peter. She's fifteen now."   


"What the hell does that matter, Affy? She's DRUNK! Who gave her the booze?"   


"One of your spacer friends, no doubt. Or possibly even that brother of yours..."   


"That brother of mine is the captain of a JMC ship! He'd know better than to give a minor alcohol! And if you say one more word against him, I swear to God I'll..."   


"Well, you're the one who insisted on bringing all of these... these PEOPLE into my house!"   


"Dammit, Affy! She's out of control! It's nobody's fault but HERS. She should know better than to take a drink. YOU TOLD HER NOT TO DRINK, RIGHT?"   


"Keep your voice down! The neighbors will hear!"   


"FUCK THE NEIGHBORS!"   


"Peter!"   


**************

  


Hippolyta wondered what was missing. She was missing something important... She stared at the piles of paperwork that were threatening to engulf her desk. She had no desire to touch them. She didn't care about her job. She hated her job. She was _thrilled_ that the ship was three million years into deep space. She could do what she wished, and happily thumb her nose at anyone who said otherwise. What were they gonna do, throw her in the brig? Not bloody likely. Especially since she was the captain's niece. Of course, she hated that. In fact, she hated everything about being in the corps.   


She had wanted to become a...   


Meh. Water under the dam. Bridge. Whatever.   


****************

  


She was sprawled across her bed, having spent the entire night vomiting. She was still wearing her cocktail dress, but had thrown her bathrobe on over it. Her eye make-up was off her eyes, and on her cheeks in little black rivulets, due to the involuntary tears that came with her sickness. Dawn was just beginning to break outside her window. In just a few moments, the car would be there. Her father had told her to get dressed, that she was being sent away to a very strict school. She hadn't done it. She was through playing his little mind games. She had always eventually bowed to his wishes, and he had gotten his way. This time, she was going to resist. She was going to do things _her_ way. She heard the crunch of a vehicle pulling into her gravel driveway. Her bedroom door opened, and there was her father. She sat up to look at him, feeling nothing, not even a sense of elation from her new resolve. Nothing.   


"You're not ready." It wasn't a question, but a statement of fact, delivered in a flat monotone.   


"No." Equally flat, equally impassionate.   


"Who gave you the booze last night?"   


"You did."   


"You lie to your own father, now. You're obviously disturbed, Letty. You're going to school."   


"No." Same as before, with a bit more steel behind it.   


"This is not up for a majority vote, Letty."   


"My name is Hippolyta. And I'm not going."   


He was across the room in two strides, and pulled her up from the bed by her arm. She hoped that it would leave a bruise to remember him by.   


"I'll call you whatever I damn well feel like, and you're going off to Miss Prattchet's Boarding School for Disobedient Girls."   


With that, her father had hauled her bodily out of her room, swept her out the door and down the hall. She tried to go limp on him, but he was prepared for this tactic. He tackled her at the waist, using his shoulder, and hauled her up like a sack of potatoes. He jogged her out to the front door while she gaped to get her wind back. They zoomed past her mother, who stood at the open door, holding a few pieces of luggage, looking like she had been up all night as well. She had a look of pure anguish on her face, and she had been crying as well.   


There was a groundcar in the driveway. It was black, with orange stripes racing along the sides. The bright yellow and red emblem of Tri-Techno Security was scorched on the hood. Her father had hired a private security car to transport her, behind bars, to her new place of schooling.   


He was serious about this.   


Hippolyta's mind raced, trying to think what she had ever done in her relatively short life to deserve this mistrust from her father. Then it hit her.   


She was too much like him. She had inherited his sneakiness, his ingenuity, his distrust and dislike of pretty much every other person alive. And last night, when she let her guard down, she had disappointed him. In his eyes, he was doing her a favor. To inflict this drama upon her, the boarding school, the private security guard, not allowing her to get dressed... it was all a part of his master plan to get her to grow up, to harden herself to what life would throw at her.   


She stopped struggling, and allowed herself to be belted in by the gorilla her father had hired. She could have put up a fight, and possibly gotten away. But now that she knew the game, she was determined to win. And the only way that she'd win was if she came back from school exactly the same as when she left. She'd show him. She could out-stubborn the old bastard.   


She heard the muffled thump of the boot closing, and saw her mother turn and run sobbing into the house. Hippolyta felt sorry for her, in an anemic way. Her mother was a soft woman, curved in all the wrong places, like a pillow that's been drop kicked a few times. How her mother and father managed to have a (mostly) quiet and civilized marriage was beyond her.   


Hippolyta briefly wished that she had been born a boy. Then her mother wouldn't fret so much.   


Her father came to the side of the car she was belted into, leaned in the open door and said, "Letty, I'm willing to give you one last chance. I'm not trying to punish you, I'm trying to do you a favor. Who gave you the booze last night? Tell me the truth, and you can stay home."   


She looked her father right in the eyes and said, "You can't win now, Daddy. I know the rules, finally. I won't lie, and you won't believe the truth. So close the car door and leave me alone. And my name is _Hippolyta_."   


He blinked at her, stupidly, looking for all the world like his doughy brother. Then, without another word, he closed the car door and walked back into the house.   


The car pulled away, and though she didn't know it, it would be the last time she saw her home, or her parents.   


She got the bruise that she wanted, too...   


**************

  


The next three years went by swiftly. She had little to no contact with her parents, and she did not miss them. Miss Prattchet was a sweet old lady, with an unfortunate tendency towards cats. She believed in Spare The Rod And Spoil The Child. And that Naughty Girls Were People Too. Of the sixty other girls at the school, Hippolyta was the smartest and the weakest. But when she discovered the joys of martial arts, she soon was the smartest and the strongest. This was even taking into account that a few of the girls had rap sheets as long as their arms. Hippolyta outshined them all. Miss Prattchet once commented on it to her. "My dear, why are you at my school? You don't seem the type."   


Hippolyta had responded with, "I made the mistake of trusting someone who wasn't worthy of it."   


This deliberately ambiguous statement had caused the rumour to go around that Hippolyta had had a sordid affair that ended in an abortion. One girl, a big hulk nicknamed Brick, (after the "Brick Shithouse" of yore) made the mistake of calling Hippolyta a slut to her face. Brick then spent six weeks in traction, sucking her food through a straw. She found it difficult to eat with no teeth. Hippolyta, meanwhile, spent that same six weeks forced to write many papers on the topic, "Violence; The Last Refuge of the Weak." She got outstanding marks on all of them, and was never bothered by anybody ever again. She needed no further lessons.   


A few months before she was to turn eighteen, she received a letter from her mother, informing her that her father had run off with a cocktail waitress from Las Vegas. Her mother asked her politely to return home that day, and she could resume her studies in the thing that she loved most, veterinary care. Hippolyta pondered for about 15 seconds, and sent her mother a reply that she was not interested in that anymore, thanks, and that she'd be joining the Corps. A week later she got another letter saying that if she did join the Corps, she would no longer be welcome in the house. So, the moment she turned eighteen, she left the school without a diploma, and hitched a ride to Chicago. Upon arriving in the Windy City, she marched right into the JMC recruiting office, told them that she was related to the captain of the Red Dwarf, and asked if there were any available openings for a job. It wasn't that she wanted to ship out, but rather to show her mother that she no longer had any hold over her. She expected to be told to smeg off.   


To her horror, she realized that she was signing her enlistment papers, and that she was leaving on a transport bound for the Red Dwarf. But she wouldn't back down. That stubborn streak got her into trouble again. She was now a Second Technician, assigned to Charlie shift.   


The first thing that she realized was that being a glorified janitor on a ship the size of a city really sucked.   


The second thing that she realized was that her uncle, the captain, was an incompetent boob with the leadership ability of a sloth. So she plotted. If she couldn't be what she wanted to be, then she'd be in charge. She would command Red Dwarf.   


She noticed that the officers who were the highest among the elite were those that had started careers in security, not engineering. She applied for an open position in the security team. She was laughed at by the existing Security Officers, men and a few women who were right nasty bastards. But she remembered Brick, and laughed to herself. These people in khaki were like Brick, only more subtle. She could handle subtle. Todhunter, the Second Officer, had told her, condescendingly, that a short little girl like her wasn't Security Officer material. Simply out of the question. But the catering staff needed a good sous chef... She challenged him to a sparring match, and wiped the floor with him.   


Todhunter had his revenge, though. He was the one in charge of all entrants exams, and gave her the 6th level written test instead of the 1st level. She, of course, failed.   


So she waited another year. She studied, and read, and watched everybody like a hawk. She was known down at the Disco as the Staring Tech. Or the Arctic Ice Queen. Or just plain old IronBritches, as her looks and family connections had drawn the attentions of several men. Not only did she rebuff their advances, but she waxed poetic, at the top of her voice, as to their ablutionary habits and lack of intellect. If she had been a man, she would have been in the brig in three seconds, as a basic peacekeeping measure.   


When the year was over, she submitted a report to her uncle that increased efficiency for the Technicians by about 200%. They allowed her to take the test again, and she surprised everyone but herself with a perfect score. She discovered later that Todhunter had given her the 6th level test again. Her first act as a Security Officer was to jot down snide comments in the margin of his personal file. She caused "sensitive" information regarding his sexual proclivities to make the gossip rounds. If her uncle suspected her hand in the graffitti on the bathroom walls that said, "Keep Todhunter away from the scutters, he'll corrupt their hardware," he said nothing.   


At the tender age of twenty-one, Hippolyta decided that it was time for a shake down. She was the junior member of the Security staff, being 45th down on the ladder from department head. She watched as those who were bigger and dumber than her get assigned to the jobs that were least suited to their abilities. The last straw was Stuey. Stuey was an ok guy, but dumber than a piece of driftwood washed up on the shores of Los Angeles.   


Stuey was her first victim.   


She called him into a private conference and told him, confidentially, that he was being considered for a commendation. But please, don't tell anybody, because I'm wasn't supposed to know about it! She explained to him that she found it in a memo that was accidentally given to her. She begged him to keep his mouth shut, so she wouldn't get into trouble. So Stuey did the natural thing. He bragged to everybody that he had an inside track on the decisions of the Department heads, and could tell for sure that he was going to be promoted. This had the effect of the head officer to pull his file from the "Advance" pile and shunt him off sideways into Paperwork Hell. Leaving his promotion open to the next officer in line, Hippolyta.   


When Stuey commented on this turn of events, it was dismissed as the bitchings of a discontent.   


For another year, Hippolyta stuck to this plan. Her rise through the ranks was swift and uncontested. She had little contact with her uncle, and she preferred it that way. She didn't want any familial connections to mar her aloof demeanor. No one could say that she leaned on her uncle for assistance in her duties. It had the bonus effect of people confiding things to her that should only have been revealed under court order. They assumed that she didn't like her uncle, and therefore she would be the perfect person to complain to. She amassed a considerable amount of information on the weaknesses and foibles of the captain, and planned to use every syllable of dirt on him, when the time was right.   


That time came about two years later, when she was Third Officer in charge of security. In this position, she heard pretty much everything that went on. A man by the name of David Lister had been put into stasis due to a violation of the quarantine regulations. Her security team was charged with finding the beast that had put him there. But they were stonkered. Not only could they not find the cat, but they actually dared to claim that there was no cat. Hippolyta, having seen the picture of Lister with his pet, was not put off by their lack of feline-finding. She studied Lister's personal file, seeing all of the reports written on him by one Rimmer, Arnold Judas. She figured out, from those reports, what kind of man Lister was, and found where he had hidden the cat. By this time, however, Frankenstein had had her kittens.   


Hippolyta held one of the kittens in her arms, and remembered her aborted desire to be a veterinarian. She blinked at the tiny, mewling critter, and made the stupidest decision of her life. She took the cats and put them in the hold, away from the prying eyes of Holly, away from the possibility of dissection and death. Then, using a computer unconnected to the mainframe, she created photos showing a dead cat down in the science lab. She then presented the report to her uncle, and the matter was considered closed. She asked that Lister be removed from stasis and restored to duty.   


That was her mistake. She made it personal. Becuase Lister was willing to give up his life to save a cat, she empathized.   


Her uncle looked at her coldly and informed her brusquely that Lister had broken one of the most dire regulations, and, regardless that the creature was dead, Lister must fulfill his sentence. She, as a security officer, should know that. Perhaps his reccomendation that she be promoted should be reconsidered. In fact, maybe she should be demoted instead. He heard that Floor 13 was in need of a woman guard.   


She blinked at her uncle, seeing her father in his pasty face. She began to open her mouth to protest, to tell him that if he dared, she would expose him as Dennis the Doughnut Boy... when a tall, gangling man rushed around the corner into the captain's office. She recognised him instantly. It was Arnold Rimmer.   


She had never seen him in the flesh, as it were. She had only seen the picture in his file. At first, she had thought that he was just very unphotogenic. Seeing him in person, she realized that his nostrils really _were_ that big. She recalled that he had failed his astronavigation exam 10 times, that he had asked for his gazpacho soup to be warm, and that he had filed 162 complaints against David Lister, the man whom she was trying spring from stasis.   


She despised him on sight.   


She listened with half an ear while Rimmer explained about some sort of malfunction in the Drive Plate, her mind racing over the possibilities of her conversation with her uncle. How could she turn this to her advantage? Obviously, that Rimmer had been assigned to repairing the Drive Plate showed that her uncle was either suicidal or stupid.   


But before she could jump into the conversation, there was a deafening klaxon, and she felt a strange wave of heat wash over the back of her head.   


The last thing she heard was, "Gazpacho soup..."   


*****************

  


When she awoke, she was surprised to find herself sitting behind her desk, with paperwork piled high before her. This puzzled her, as she distinctly remebered shredding this particular batch of paperwork three months previously. But there it was, fully restored and sitting on her desk again. She also noted that many of her personal belongings were... off. There was no other way to describe it. Her clothing, painstakingly amassed and cared for over several years, lay in a heap on the floor. Her books were out of order, and a quite a few were missing their dust jackets. Puzzled, she ran a hand through her hair. It was short. She gasped in shock, as the last time she checked, her hair was mid-back length. Now it barely went past her ears.   


It was at this point she realized that something very peculiar had happened. And when peculiar things happened, the shit started its roll down-hill. She prepared herself for a cock-up of giant proportions, and realized that on this ship, with her uncle as captain, it would be even bigger than giant. It'd be gargantuan. Enormous. Godzilla-sized.   


Todhunter, who had never forgiven Hippolyta for the clock-cleaning she had given him, knocked on her door and informed her that the captain was calling an emergency meeting. All senior officers and all security officers were obliged to attend. Now.   


Hippolyta followed the second officer up to the Drive Room, where everybody stood around looking very, very confused. Hippolyta noticed that Kristine Kochanski, Navigations officer, was not at her post. She should have been there, as she realized that she and Todhunter were the last to arrive.   


Yes, something was definitely rotten in Denmark. Too bad that she was on the Red Dwarf.   


After a long speech having something to do with wormholes and top secret information, the captain dismissed the officers, but called out, "Hippolyta, a word, if you don't mind."   


Hippolyta returned to stand in front of her uncle's desk. She didn't even try to hide her contempt. She knew what was coming. "Yes, Captain Hollister?"   


"Letty, dear, I've been going over some of your reports. I must say that I'm duly impressed."   


"Thank you, Captain."   


"However, your attitude has been, well... let's just say that you've stepped on a few toes in your tenure as Third Security Officer. I'm not disappointed, per say, more... disappointed."   


She raised an eyebrow at him, and said nothing. He was such a smeghead.   


He squirmed awkwardly at her cold silence. He had apparently expected some sort of response. An excuse, a denial, anything. But silence wasn't on his mental list of options. He bulled onward. "You see, Letty, there's a certain SOP in regards to being an officer. And while you certainly have been nothing but an island of competency in an ocean of doofuses, your demeanor is not commanding material. I think that perhaps you have been promoted too swiftly, and not had a chance to really understand what being an officer means. Now, I don't want you to think that I'm punishing you. In fact, I'm doing you a favor."   


Hippolyta started to hear the words of her father coming out of the mouth of her uncle, and knew that, no matter what she did from this point on, she would never, ever command this ship.   


"So I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to offer you the job of Parole Officer for some of our rehabilitated prisoners from Floor 13. It'll give you the opportunity to grow up, as it were. This way, you can keep your security clearance, and save face with your fellow officers. And you'll be able to help with a vital project that has been assigned to Red Dwarf and me. How does that sound to you, Letty?"   


"I'll tell you how that sounds, Captain. I'll tell you that that if you had any hope of keeping things from cocking up any further, you just blew it. And then I'll give you the finger." She did so. "And then I'll walk away from you." She turned to walk from his office. She turned her head over her shoulder and said, "And my name is Hippolyta."   


She was halfway down the hall when she heard him call after her, "Either take the job or go into stasis!"   


She paused. "Sure. Why the smeg not?" And then she went to report to her new commanding officer, Ackerman.   


**************

  


It took two years for her hair to grow back. She spent that two years as a parole officer. The rest of her sort of... died inside. Her books, her things, the last connection to her family, meant nothing. Because she knew.   


She knew exactly how far they were into space. It was an open secret. She had heard the rumours circulating, spent 15 minutes with Holly, and did a little math. The ship was 3 million years into deep space. And she would never, ever go home again.   


No one spoke to her. They knew that she was persona non grata now. She hadn't had any friends before, but at least she had contacts and aquaintances. People who told her the scuttlebutt. Now... she only had the deranged ramblings of former prisoners to keep her company.   


Then, the unthinkable happened. Rimmer, Arnold Judas, was up for parole, and she was assigned to be his P.O. She already hated him for making so many outrageous comments about Lister. And she had hated him even more for the cock up with the drive plate. (She correctly guessed that that had been what killed them all so many, many millenia ago...) So when he appeared in her office, looking so smug and babbling like a lunatic, she decided to have a bit of fun with him. It worked.   


It worked too well.   


She should have known that toying with him like that would cause him to like her. She knew enough about psychology to know that a screw up like Rimmer would be attracted to her for it. For some reason, she did it anyway.   


So when she listened in on his poker game, and heard the way the conversation was going, she told Marone to contact Lister ASAP, and made her way down to Kochanski's quarters. She wanted to hear it from his mouth, not over a crappy communications channel.   


And she did. Every single nasty syllable. She stood at the door, almost shocked senseless at the vehemency of his diatribe. Then, with a parting shot across his bow, she retreated, to gloat over her success. Let him be infatuated with her _now!_ He'd never live it down. He'd never be able to look her in the face again, let alone entertain romantic notions.   


But as she sat in her quarters, and it approached midnight...   


******************

  


She regretted it.   


It wasn't that she liked him. God, no! How revolting. Rather, it was hearing him say that her name was _Hippolyta_.   


He insisted on calling her by her right name.   


Fuck. That was going to get her into a heap of trouble, right there.   


What was missing? She was missing something... A smoke. She needed a cigarette. She retrieved the pack from her side pocket, rattling it around. There were still a few smokes in there. It was almost midnight, and she hadn't finished her pack. She was cutting back. She felt a dim surge of pride over that. She blinked repeatedly at the paperwork on her desk, holding her unlit smoke, thinking, _If I finish this tonight, then I can skive off tomorrow... Tomorrow I'll be able to rest for a bit. Maybe get a beer... Of course, what would be the point... Nobody to share it with..._   


She was startled awake by the call on her door chiming. Her head was resting on a stack of paper, which transferred some of the ink onto her cheek. Her hair was tangled and matted, and she was wearing no makeup, but was wearing her ratty blue bathrobe. She glanced at her clock. It was just past 3:30. Smeg.   


The door chimed again and she called out, "Just a second." She secured her bathrobe more fully, and opened to the door.   


It was Rimmer.   


Her first instinct was to close the door in his face. She didn't. Why she didn't was a question that she asked herself for years to come.   


"May I come in?" He asked her this as if it was a common thing, a reformed prisoner popping in on his PO at three thirty in the morning.   


"No."   


"Can I talk to you?"   


"It's three thirty in the morning." Like telling him the time was the answer to his question.   


"I know."   


"Good."   


"So can I talk to you?"   


"I don't know. Can you?" Oh, sweet mother of pearl. She was talking like Miss Prattchet. Like she was some idiotic grade school teacher.   


"_May_ I talk..."   


"Fine. Start talking."   


"I'm sorry."   


She stood there for a moment, not believing her ears. Rimmer had just apologized to her? Not possible. He continued.   


"I'm sorry about earlier. About this morning, when I insulted your outfit. It was a bit odd, but I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry I said all of those nasty things tonight. And I'm sorry I called you a bitch. You're not. I'm a total and complete loser, and you have every right to loathe me."   


He turned away from her, and started to walk away.   


"Rimmer...?"  


Rimmer stopped, his back towards her, his shoulders scrunched up to his ears.   


"Yes, Hippolyta?"   


"It's ok. I accept your apology."   


And she closed the door to her quarters, leaving Rimmer in the hall with a big, shit eating grin on his face.   


"Yesssss!" He pumped his fist in the air and danced his way down the hall.   


******************************************


	6. Chapter 5

*******************************************

  


Rimmer was elated. She had forgiven him! He had said he was sorry and just like that, she had forgiven him! Perhaps the whole sincerity thing was something worth while after all. He practically skipped his way back to his quarters, his mind lingering on her. He imagined himself touching her perfect blonde hair, kissing her hand... He burst back into his quarters and cried out, "Lister! You're not going to believe..."   


Lister wasn't there.   


Rimmer figured that Lister was still with Kochanski. He shrugged. For the first time, he didn't feel that twinge of jealousy that he felt when he knew something good was happening to another person. He didn't care, frankly, that Lister and Kochanski were making passionate monkey love while he sat alone in his quarters.   


She had forgiven him!   


He recalled how utterly charming she looked when she was ruffled and sleepy and dressed only in a bathrobe, put on his pajamas, and fell asleep. It was the best night of sleep that he had gotten in years.   


****************

  


"We are the knights who say... NI!"   


"No! Not the Knights of Ni! Those who hear them seldom live to tell the tale!"   


"The Saaaaaame."  


"Oh, knights of Ni, we are but humble travelers, and but seek a path through your forest."   


"NI!" "NI!" "NI!" "Shhh.. shh..."   


"We want you to fetch us... A _SHRUBBERY!_"   


"A what?"   


"Lister!"   


Lister turned his head away from the screen, which had the effect of pausing the movie he was watching. (Wonderful thing, technology...) Crouching next to him, in the aisle, was Kristine, who had a very concerned look on her face.   


"Hi Kris. What's the matter?" He didn't show much enthusiasm, and had large circles under his eyes.   


"I called your name twice, and you didn't answer. Did you get any sleep last night?"   


"Not a wink." Dave turned his head back towards the screen and the movie resumed.   


"Oh these are sad days for the people. Even I, a man who arranges and designs shrubberies...."   


"Dave!"   


He turned again to face his girlfriend. Even in the dim light of the empty cinema, Kochanski could see the anguish in his eyes, could see how scared he was. Their appointment with Marone and Captain Hollister was in fifteen minutes. She moved in and held him in her arms. He didn't respond.   


Last night, after they had gotten their summons, Dave had said to her that he needed some time alone, and had vanished away. Kochanski had spent the intervening time tossing restlessly in her bed, searching for sleep. It had eluded her, except for a few brief, random snatches throughout the night. Around 7:30, she sleepwalked her way up to her duty station, mumbled a brief apology for missing her shift yesterday, and blurrily ran through the motions of her job. At 12:30, she told her CO that she was due in the captain's office in half an hour, and could she please be excused to freshen up? He looked at her strangely and said yes. She beat a hasty retreat, realizing that he probably thought she was sneaking off to see Dave again. She punched up on a remote terminal and asked Holly where Dave had hidden himself. He told her that he was alone in cinema three, watching some Chaucerian Knights movie. She ran all the way there. Dave was a movie fanatic, but his being alone in the theatre couldn't be a good thing. It would bring back too many memories of when he was all alone on the Red Dwarf...   


"Dave, sweetie, please. Talk to me."   


"I have nothing to say. You were right and I was wrong. I'm sorry. Off!" he snapped, and the paused picture vanished from the screen.   


She pulled back, removing her arms from his shoulders. She looked into his eyes in the rapidly ascending mood lighting. "Dave, no. You were right. We shouldn't have hidden it. Now we're in worse trouble than before. I was incredibly selfish. Please, forgive me?"   


"Forgive you?" wailed Lister. "Kris, there's nothing to forgive! You were only doing what you thought was in our best interest. It just frosts my cookies to have to hide the fact that we're together! I shouldn't have to hide the fact that I love you!"   


They both froze. Kochanski felt as if someone had taken a fist-full of IcyHot and splooched it down her blouse. Lister felt like his eyeballs were on fire.   


"What?" she whispered.   


He stood there for a moment, staring at his feet. "I love you," he repeated finally. They stood there, staring at each other for what seemed an eternity. Lister had playfully said, "Love ya," on more than one occasion, but Kochanski had never once heard him say that with such intensity, such fervor. It nearly scared her. He sounded almost angry... She was so lost in the moment that what he said next caught her totally off balance.   


"Well?" he prompted.   


She blinked at him, at a total loss as to what it was he was waiting for. "Well what?"   


"Well? Aren't you going to say that you love me too?"   


Kochanski hesitated. It was barely a second, the time it took for her to breathe in. It was too long.   


"I..."   


"I see," he said quietly, all emotion drained from his voice.   


Her brain finally caught up with the last 30 seconds, and she realized her mistake. "No, Dave, it's not like that..."   


"No. Don't say things that you don't mean. I don't want to force it out of you. It's ok." Lister scooted past her, into the aisle and up the slope towards the exit. "You comin'?" he asked, not turning to look at her. "We need to be in Hollister's office in five minutes." Without even so much as a backward glance, he exited the theatre, leaving Kochanski alone in the dim light exclusive to cinemas.   


She stood stunned for a few moments, then muttered, "Bugger," under her breath and ran out to the corridor to catch up with him. His retreating form was just down the way, and his step was missing it's usual bounce. She sprinted to his side, and walked silently with him to the captain's office.   


It may not last much longer, but for the moment they were still together. Kochanski intended to savor it.   


***************

  


Rimmer was awakened by a few short, sharp, and extremely loud bars of Reville, in E sharp, for bugle. He sat up quickly, too quickly, and banged his head on the top bunk.   


"OW! What the smegging hell...? OFF!" he snapped, swinging his lanky frame off the bed just as the cacophony gurgled and died. Automatically, he took off his jammies and pulled his trousers on annoyedly, pausing for a moment to stare at the clock. He almost didn't believe what it told him. It was 12:30 already. He had slept through the first three hours of his shift the day after his parole hearing.   


The captain was going to go spare.   


Wait, screw the captain. _She_ was gonna go spare.   


"Holly!" he bellowed, as he hunted around for the rest of his uniform. "Why didn't you wake me sooner?"   


The computer's goofy face appeared on the wall mirror. "'Cuz ya didn't ask me to, you great wazzok."   


Rimmer was about to launch into a monologe describing Holly's personal habits in comparison to a syphilitic potato bug, when the call-chime on his door rang out. It had been broken a while back, and now, instead of the usual melodious wind chime sound, it rather sounded like an oboe stuffed up the hind quarters of a mule.   


Rimmer tried to imagine who it could be. It was probably Lister, his new CO for the Zed shift, coming to twit him about being late, and most assuredly putting him on report. Most of his nightmares recently had involved Lister writing him up. For some reason his subconscious mind just couldn't deal with the fact that Lister putting anybody on report was an absurd notion. Of course, Rimmer felt that he deserved it...   


"Come in," he called out, trying to hide the shame and annoyance in his voice. He hoped it came out macho and suave, like an actor in a really bad spy movie. It sounded, instead, like a grown man trying his hardest to impersonate Richard Simmons.   


It wasn't Lister at the door. It was Hippolyta.   


He reswallowed his heart as he stared unabashedly at her. She was done up in a similar outfit as yesterday, only with more green and less of it total. The blouse was positively transparent...! He shifted his eyes to her face, trying his damnedest not to stare at her obvious support measures. Granted, he was wearing nearly nothing at all. A pair of rumpled trousers, and that was it. He hurriedly kicked his pajamas under the bunk, not wanting her to see the fluffy bunnies and kittens embroidered thereon.   


He was so busy staring at her eyes, that he failed to notice the fact that her eyes were staring right back at him.   


She, of course, recovered first.   


"You're not at your duty station," she stated quietly, sounding almost dissappointed in him.   


He stared at her stupidly for a moment, uncomprehending. _Why is she telling me this? It's not like she cares about... Oh. Wait. Yes she does. She's my parole officer._ Rimmer snapped to attention just a few seconds too late, throwing a Full Double Rimmer, the one where he stomps his booted foot full on the ground for an impressive, "CLONK" sound.   


Of course, he wasn't wearing his boots. His bare foot slammed into the hard metal floor, and instead of clonk, he heard, "SNAP." He had, in a moment of stupid enthusiasm, sprained his ankle quite badly. Rimmer bit back the howl that was threatening to tear out of him, scrunching his face up in a rictus of pain and humiliation. He saw through a curtain of unshed tears that Hippolyta was staring at him again, her mouth half-open in surprise. A few moments passed, then he managed to grind out, "Permission to hollar like a banshee, Ma'am..."   


"Permission granted," she said quickly. Rimmer did as he promised, yelling like a demon just out of hell on a Saturday night and looking for a good stiff drink. He slumped down onto his bunk, still screaming blue murder, clutching his offending ankle. It hurt so badly, Rimmer suspected that he may have even broken it. Already he could feel it swelling up tremendously.   


Rimmer was so caught up in his agony that he failed to notice, at first, that Hippolyta had knelt at his feet and was trying to gently prise his fingers from around his ankle. He finally realized that she was touching him again, with all the tenderness of a competent doctor. Even through the pain, he felt that same electricity of contact, that shiver that ran up his spine when she touched him. Whether or not she felt the same thing, Rimmer couldn't guess. Her face showed no surpirse, only compassion and a slight touch of amusement. That amusement was at his expense, he supposed. God only knew that he deserved it.   


She finally managed to get him to relax his death grip on his ankle, and gently prodded at it with her fingertips. Rimmer grunted. It hurt, but she was touching him. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She looked up at him, her nose crinkled in amusment. "Yeah, it's sprained. You goober, why'd you do that?" Her voice was thick with laughter, but there was also an undertone of compassion. She shook her head, and crossed over to the medicine cabinet above his sink. Her back was toward him, and he forgot his ankle as he stared at her bottom, which was swaying hypnotically as she stood on tiptoe to hunt along the top shelf. Rimmer shook himself. He had no right to be staring at her that way... he lowered his eyes. But only for a moment. His gaze was drawn back up to her, as she finished her chore in the cabinet and came back over to him. Sitting next to him on the bunk, she wordlessly motioned for him to put his ankle in her lap. He did as she wanted, feeling the incongruity of this moment. In her hands was a plastic bandage, which had certain chemicals in it to cool down an injury. He heard the little metal initiator disk inside snap, and felt the blessed coldness begin to wrap around his injury. Her hands moved swiftly, competently, as if she had bandaged a sprain millions of times in her life. Rimmer suspected, correctly, that her first aid training was 3 million years and a Girl Scout troop in her past.   


"Thank you," he murmured, as soon as she dropped her hands from his flesh and he removed his foot from her lap.   


"You're welcome," she said, just as quietly. They sat on his bunk for a few moments, not looking at each other, not saying anything. He enjoyed the silence. It was an anodyne to his bruised ego. Lister would have immediately started to hurl insults at him. Hell, he wouldn't have even helped him bandage it up. And he sure as hell wouldn't have said, "You're welcome." Especially not in that quiet, almost shy tone. He slid his lowered eyes over to her, seeing only her hands folded demurely in her lap. He wrestled with the urge to reach out and grab her hand. _Is that what she wants? Does she want me to make a move?_ Rimmer debated internally. On the one hand, she had showed him great kindness. She had forgiven him last night. And she was beautiful. On the other hand, she was his parole officer. She could kick his ass from here to next Tuesday. And she was inquiring as to why he had missed his shift.   


Not the best time to make a move, really.   


Hippolyta, for her part, was fighting the blush that was threatening to burn her collarbone to ashes. She hadn't blushed in over a decade. Who did Rimmer think he was, staring at her hands like that? She could feel his gaze locked on her fingers, she could almost taste the tension radiating from his body, winding him up tighter than a cheap pocket watch.   


Hippolyta was very confused. She had loathed Rimmer on sight two years (of her subjective time) ago. Now, within the last 36 hours, she found her soul singing when he looked at her, felt her heart pounding when they touched. Why? What was it about this trumped up little man, with all the inherent ability and charm of a malarial tsetse fly, that made her tremble when they were together? Hippolyta was flabbergasted. Her past love affairs had been unremarkable. Like soggy, burnt oatmeal. Totally unpalatable.   


She had only made love once in her life. He had been a moderately handsome teenaged boy that she'd met on one of the rare sojourns from her school to the local strip-mall. His name was Anthony, and he worked behind the deli counter at the supermarket. He had offered her a free sandwich, and she had told him to meet her later that night. After a few weeks of passionate but clumsy kisses, they had made love under a pine tree that was in the forest outside the school grounds. She had expected fireworks, but instead received nothing but a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had been so unnerved by the act that she fled from him without even saying why. He did not come to meet her again. She was relieved. When she joined the corps, and began her stint on the Red Dwarf, there were plenty of men willing to jump into bed with her. She refused them all. Not because they weren't attractive, but because she felt that same, cold, empty feeling in her stomach when she thought about having sex with any of them.   


Thus the nickname IronBritches. Those men called her frigid. They may have been right, but she never bothered to find out. She was almost afraid to find out. Her other passions burned so hot within her, that to think that she was incapable of loving scared her.   


So why was it that the thought of getting all sweaty and moaning with Rimmer made her feel like she was in free-fall? Why was he so different? Why did the sight of him without a shirt on...?   


Hippolyta suddenly jumped up from the bunk and crossed to the door. She couldn't stay here with him any longer. She had done her job, waking him up with the bugle call, asking him why he wasn't at his shift. Why stay? She knew that the longer she stayed with him, the higher the chances that something horrible would happen. Like... ew... actually beginning to like him.   


She was almost to the threshold when she felt his hand grab her wrist. She spun around, knocking Rimmer off balance, and dislodging his grip on her. The door swooshed open in response to their proximity, but for some reason, she did not exit. They stared at each other.   


A whole lot of her recent time was being spent on staring. This couldn't be a good thing.   


He spoke first. "Why are you here?"   


"The obvious reason."   


"Which is...?"   


"Obvious." She smirked at him. If she couldn't distance herself from him by being elsewhere, then perhaps a few verbal jabs would do the trick. He just looked at her. His hazel eyes were shining with conflicting emotions. Lust, fear, worship, pain from his sprained ankle... At least, she assumed that's where the pain was coming from. It didn't bear thinking about, that she might be the thing causing him pain. He continued in his silence, so she sighed and moved back from the door. It whooshed closed, and they were in private once more. She massaged the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. "Look, Rimmer. Why do you _think_ I came here?"   


He didn't say anything for a moment longer. He didn't trust his voice to work. Then, he said, "Because you wanted to be with me."   


There it was. He'd said it. There was no backing down now. The silence raged onwards again, and they spent that silence looking deep into each other's eyes. Rimmer's heart was hammering against his ribcage. Hippolyta felt as if she was drowning, her breath coming ragged and thick.   


"Why would you think that?" she said, forcing a modicum of light airiness into her tone. She had to keep her voice breezy, otherwise the moment would overcome her sensibilities and she'd be lost.   


Rimmer was not fooled. "Because you feel it too. I know you do."   


"Don't assume you know what I feel, Arnold Rimmer," she snappishly blurted out as she turned away from him. She sat on the bunk impatiently, tossing her hair out of her face. It wasn't what she'd meant to say, not at all. She wanted to tell him, _Yes, I do. I do feel it._ But a lifetime of being alone and lonely had shown her that nobody could understand her, or her feelings. The people that she had entrusted with her innermost desires had turned on her. Pushed her away. Sent her packing. Or, even worse, didn't offer her any kind of trust in return, as if what she valued above all else was utterly unimportant to anyone else alive. She did not want that to happen with Rimmer. So she got an early revenge, by doing it to him first.   


Then, he surprised her for the second time in twelve hours by saying, "Don't assume that I can't." She glanced up sharply at him, still standing where she had left him. The look on his face was so heartbreaking that Hippolyta felt as if she would die from looking at it. She wondered what it was like to be on the inside of that face. The thought nearly made her cry.   


Rimmer crossed over to her and sat down on the bunk, so close to her that their thighs were almost touching. He reached out and clasped her hand in his. Her first impulse was to snatch it away, but she didn't. A lot of parole officers would give their side arms for an opportunity to dig up this sort of dirt. But for some reason, it didn't feel... dirty. It just felt right. And that made her even more nervous. Hippolyta couldn't tell if that was her pulse or his thumping along their palms. She bit her lower lip, and leaned away from him imperceptably. Rimmer took a deep breath and said, "Don't tell me that you can't feel it."   


He was surprising himself with his bold words and even bolder actions. Usually, his response to a woman was the "Wormdo" line. Or hypnosis. Or a million other cheap tricks. But Rimmer had no desire to do anything cheap around Hippolyta. Her presence inspired the exact opposite. He wanted to shower her with diamonds and jewels, put her on a pedestal, worship her. He suddenly realized the way to do this was to tell her about himself. Not to engender pity, or to drag her down into the muck with him, but rather do it simply, without embelleshment. Honestly. Open up to her, and share all of the things that made him... him.   


Softly, quietly, he began to talk. He heard his voice speaking of his childhood, his school days, his family, what they expected of him and their disappointment when he hadn't delivered. He spoke of his time aboard the Dwarf, telling her what he had intended to do, what he'd ended up doing, and how that made him feel about himself. He told her about his psudeo-friendship with Lister. He told her, in short, everything.   


Her breathing had wavered during his story, at times low and even, at others sharp and fast. Rimmer saw tears shining on her cheeks.   


Hippolyta finally knew what it was about Rimmer that facinated her, and at the same time frightened her. It was his pain, and his conquering of it. He had seen pain, yes. He had made horrible mistakes. But he lived through it. He went on, unchanged by things that would have driven a lesser man to suicide. And if there was anything in this world that she admired above all else, it was the ability to keep your core self untouched by suffering. She had lived through her father's cruel punishment. She had survived a massive displacement and an equally massive loss. And she was still the same.   


Rimmer was far more than a possible lover. He was a kindred spirit in survival. He was just like her. And, for one moment, she hated him again for making her discover this about herself. Catching herself, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. What she was about to do would change her life forever. And there was no looking back. Well, if she really wanted a nice piece of revenge for her life to this point, Rimmer was ideal...   


Hippolyta leaned toward him and laid her lips on his cheek, very gently, as if he was something unbelievably fragile. It was the kiss of a woman greeting her husband returning from a war. She kept her lips pressed to his skin for a second longer, then moved away from him. He turned to face her, not really believing what she had just done. They looked into each other's eyes again, falling into each other.   


Then, she threw her arms around his shoulders in a firey embrace and kissed him full on the mouth.   


For several seconds, Rimmer was too stunned to give back as good as he got. However, he soon had his arms wrapped around her waist, and was kissing her as passionately as she was kissing him.   


She felt his tongue probe her mouth, and she tried to remain unmoved by it. She couldn't. This man was her other half, the one person in the entire universe made just for her. Oh, the delicious and painful irony. All thoughts of revenge left her at that moment, and she moaned softly in response. His mouth tasted faintly of morning, but it wasn't unpleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact. Rimmer tasted her for the first time, and even though there was the faint undertone of cigarettes, he could go on tasting her for the rest of his life. Hippolyta was amazed that the feeling of the flesh of her arms touching the flesh of his bare back could be so erotic. There was no emptiness left inside her anymore. She felt so full of fire that she almost couldn't stand it. Rimmer, for his part, couldn't think past this or any other moment. It was perfection, all contained in one kiss.   


They were both very caught up in their kiss, but not so much that Hippolyta lost total control of her faculties. When she felt Rimmer's hand stray southward of her waist, she jumped, and pulled out of the kiss. He looked at her, very much like a wounded puppy.   


"No," she whispered. "Not now. Not here. Anybody could walk in on us."   


"Lock!" snapped Rimmer, addressing the door. She giggled. She couldn't help herself.   


"No. Seriously. Holly can record us in here. And if I'm caught snogging with you, we're both in for it."   


"Why?" he asked, perplexed.   


She huffed exasperatedly at him. "Because I'm your parole officer...?" she prompted.   


"Oh. Right. I'd forgotten," he said, blinking with the memory. She giggled again. Rimmer grabbed her about the waist, and started nuzzling her neck. "If you giggle like that one more time, I can't be held responsible for my libido."   


She started to giggle for a third time, but it turned into a gasp of pleasure when he started licking her earlobe. She allowed herself that moment of pleasure, then...   


"Seriously, Rimmer!" She squirmed out of his embrace. "We can't do this. We have to find a place where we can't be spied on."   


He thought for a moment and came up with, "The cargo hold. Holly can't scan down there."   


She wrinkled her nose at him in a moment of disgust. "Ick, no. It's dirty down there. Besides, now isn't good."   


"Why?" he wailed, not able to control his lust any longer.   


She raised an eyebrow at the tone that he used, and patted his head, like he was an errant schoolboy. "Because. You have to get to your shift. And I have a report to file with the captain. In fact, I'm late. I should have been there 10 minutes ago." She stood up, adjusting her naughty blouse as she did. "Rimmer, I promise. I'm not trying to lead you on. It's just that we both have jobs to do, and they come first."   


"You could come first..." he whispered with a grin. She looked at him for a moment, then her eyes widened as she caught his double entendre.   


"Rimmer!"   


"Sorry."   


She snorted with repressed laughter. "Meet me in Landing Bay 5 after you're off tonight. I have an idea."   


"The landing bay? With all those people around?"   


"Not _in_ the landing bay. In one of the Starbugs. Holly can't scan there either, and I know for a fact that one of the 'Bugs is out of comission for at least another week. Trust me."   


She leaned in and kissed him one last time, softly on the lips, and was out the door before Rimmer could protest again.   


Rimmer sat on his bunk for a few moments longer, re-living the last 40 minutes of his life. Then, he got dressed and headed to his duty station, smirking all the way.   


****************

  


Lister and Kochanski sat outside the captain's office, fidgeting. It was now ten minutes after 1300 hours, and the captain showed no sign of letting them come in. His door was shut tight, and nobody had told them that the captain was expecting them. So they waited.   


Kochanski turned to Lister and said, "Are you ok, Dave?"   


"No," he answered simply. He was not looking at her, like he was afraid to. In fact, he hadn't met her eyes since they left the cinema. She'd had just about enough of that! She put her manicured fingers under his chin and tilted his lowered face up to hers.   


His eyes were bright with unshed tears. Lister was not a crier. In fact, the only time she'd seen him get this teary was when he was slicing an onion for a particularly noxious curry.   


This was not a good thing.   


"Dave... darling..."   


"No, Kris. Don't." He yanked his chin out of her hand and averted his face again, causing a few tears to involuntarily fly from his eyes.   


"I love you too," she whipered softly into his ear.   


He didn't say or do anything for a moment. Then, he raised his face back up to her, the tears finally running down his cheeks. "You mean that, Kris? I mean, really, honestly, with all your heart mean it?"   


"Yes," she responded quietly. "I've always loved you. I'm sorry about what happened in the theater. I wasn't all there. I was a bit worried about..."   


Before she could finish that sentence, Hippolyta Hollister rounded the corner, practically jogging and looking quite silly in her mostly see through outfit. She seemed out of breath, like she had run up the last 3 decks. She made her way towards the captain's office, at first not seeing Lister and Kochanski sitting on the bench right next to the door. Lister raised a sleeve and wiped the tears off of his face, and Kochanski straightend up. That was when Hippolyta noticed them.   


"Lister? Kristine? What are you two doing here? Shouldn't you be at your work stations?"   


Lister didn't trust his voice to be steady quite yet, so he let Kochanski answer for them.   


"We have an appointment with the captain and Marone. Actually, it was supposed to start ten minutes ago..."   


"Uh _huh_," replied Hippolyta. Her eyebrows knitted together in an expression of consternation. "Did they say why?"   


"Yeah," blurted out Lister. "Because we're in love, and apparently that's not kosher. You wouldn't happen to know how they found out, would you?" Lister sounded like he was ready to jump up off the bench and clock Hippolyta. Kochanski surreptitously grabbed his elbow. She had heard the rumors, and knew that Hippolyta could easily kick Lister's ass.   


Hipppolyta looked very surprised. "They called you in to bitch at you about your relationship? They can't _do_ that. It's against regs. Even paroled prisoners have the right to snog if they want." She smiled quietly to herself and thought, _Unless, of course, the person they're snogging with happens to be their parole officer..._   


Lister and Kochanski felt as if the entire night of tension just melted away. They couldn't break them up! It was against the rules! They could stay together!   


Hippolyta noticed this and grinned at the two lovers, who had immediately grabbed hands and moved closer to each other on the bench. A thought occured to her. "Unless," she mused, "one or both of you breached other terms of your parole, like missing a shift or beating each other up..."   


Their hands flew apart, and they sat up straight, a guilty look briefly passing over each of their faces in perfect synchronizaton. A guilt wave. Hippolyta noticed, and her eyes widened.   


"You're beating each other up?!? Seriously, it's none of my business, but perhaps you two should see the ship's counselor..."   


"No!" interjected Lister.   


"We each of us missed our shifts yesterday," elaborated Kristine, a look of horror etched onto her face.   


Hippolyta blinked at them, totally at a loss as to what to say. Then, the words hit her with perfect clarity.   


"Oh. Holy shit."   


They both chuckled morosely. They couldn't help it. It was gallows humor.   


Hippolyta took in their forlorn expressions, and was galvenized. She couldn't very well let these two go back to Floor 13, not over something as utterly silly as a day spent making love instead of cleaning chicken soup dispensers. Not when she had the power to change it.   


"Look, you two wait here. I'm going in to have a few words with the captain." She made _words_ sound like "A horribly painful and excruciating eternity in Belgium." "Don't panic. I'll be right back." She marched briskly up to the door and knocked on it five times.  


Lister and Kochanski watched as she entered the captain's office, wondering what they had done to deserve her compassion and tolerance. From what they had seen yesterday, and Rimmer's vague description of her, they had expected to be told, "Tough noogies, you're on your own, good luck!" Lister wondered briefly if Rimmer had something to do with this miraculous transformation...   


_Naaahhh..._   




****************

  


Hippoylta crossed to the front of her uncle's desk, unsurprised to see that Marone and Cheboigan (Kochanski's matronly parole officer, a woman who could have been Brick's twin sister) were already there. Her uncle was looking at her with a mix of confusion, revulsion and anger on his face. She wondered if he had been at the bean and broccoli burritos again last night, and had gas as a result. She sat in the last available chair, which was dead center of the room, and flanked on either side by the two other officers.   


"Letty," began the captain. "So nice of you to join us. Only ten minutes late this time. You're improving."   


"Sorry, captain. Duty called."   


"I just bet it did," muttered Marone under his breath. Hippolyta whipped her head around to shoot him a look. They'd always had a bit of a rivalry, due to the fact that she called him Moron to his face. In a loving, teasing way, of course. Like a brother and sister... sorta. He looked down, not daring to meet her eyes. She turned to face the captain again.   


"Letty, dear," he continued, as she flinched at his nickname for her, "I'm rather... unsure how to talk to you about this. Why don't you just tell me what you're thinking, and then we can proceed from there."   


"All right, captain. You shouldn't put Lister and Kochanski back in the brig. It was a first offense, they've been model prisoners, and I give you my word that it'll never happen again."   


If she expected some sort of response to that, Hippolyta was disappointed. Instead of the nod of agreement from her uncle, (like he always gave her when she reported to him) she got a stony, perplexed silence. She waited for him to reply, not knowing what else this meeting could suddenly be about.   


She got her wish.   


"No, Letty. I'm talking about this. Holly. Play back the tape from 1300, 2566 point 42." That was today's date, and the time was...   


Ten minutes ago, when she'd been in Rimmer's quarters...   


A horrible, nauseous feeling started in her abdomen and moved right up into her head. She felt dizzy. She watched in horror as the kiss that she had just shared with Rimmer was played back for her on the viewscreen, in glorious Technicolor. She saw herself lean in and touch his cheek with her lips, then the look, then the kiss. She was kissing Rimmer, and he had no shirt on. She was embracing Rimmer, and he was stroking her hair, she was caressing his bare shoulders, he was pressing his body up against her own...   


Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. She had nothing to say. What could she say? She heard her voice come out of the recording, saying, "Meet me in Landing Bay 5..." Then, mercifully, the recording stopped, and all that was left was the sound of her own voice ringing in her ears. She felt three pairs of eyes on her, and she turned her head to look unflinchingly at her uncle.   


"So? So I kissed him. So what?"   


"So what?!?!" exploded Captain Hollister. "You kissed Rimmer! Your parolee! That is _so_ against regs, Letty! Do you know what you've done? It's RIMMER! Do you have any idea how _disgusting_ that is? Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"   


She shouldn't have been surprised by his revulsion. Hell, just forty eight hours before, she shared it. But now she saw red, and before she could control herself, she was up out of the chair, in front of her uncle's desk and was hauling him up out of his seat by his collar.   


"He's _not_ disgusting! And. My. Name. Is. _**Hippolyta!!!!**_" She punctuated each word with a sharp shake to her uncle. Then, as she reached her name, she pulled back a fist and let fly, hitting her uncle right in the nose. She let go of his collar and he flew backwards over the top of his chair, blood flying in every direction.   


The other two officers in the room were so shocked at Hippolyta's violent outburst, that they failed to take immediate action. But when she hit her uncle, they leapt forward, grabbing her arms and wrestling her to the ground. She put up a hell of a fight, because she fought dirty. That had been ground into her by her father, and Brick and the other girls at school, and all the other Security officers who thought that they could take that snotty Hippolyta down a few pegs, if they only tried. She had managed to bite Cheboigan in the bicep and knee Marone in his groin when she felt something dash along her body. She had used it a few times on paroled prisoners, but had never felt it's sting herself.   


A stun-ray. Someone had used a stun-ray on her. She didn't know who, but when she found out, they'd be quite, quite dead when she got her hands on them.   


Of course, that was what her brain was thinking. Her body had slumped to the deck, in a most inconvienient and unconstructive way.   


She was dimly aware that her uncle was towering over her, pinching his nose, trying and failing to stem the blood flow. His shirt was totally splattered with his own fluids, and his eyes were slightly crossed. She was glad. She hoped that he got a concussion from when he'd gone ass over tea-kettle into the bulkhead. She couldn't move any part of her body, not even her eyes. She had to look up at him as he looked down at her.   


"Hibbolidda, I'mb dithabboinded in you." He could barely talk through his broken nose. She felt good about it. "You've banaged to croth the lime. You're hereby sendanced to dree years in the brig. For fraderniethation with your barolee, and athauld on your cabtain. Barone, Cheboigan, blease take her down to Floor Thirdeen."   


"With pleasure, captain!" exclaimed Marone, as he and Cheboigan hauled Hippolyta up. They dragged her limp body between them, and out the door, Marone giggling maliciously all the way.   


**************

  


Lister and Kochanski sprang to their feet off the bench as the door to the captain's office opened. They had heard nothing from within, due to the heavy sound-proofing of the door. They expected to see Hippolyta and the captian come out, dismiss them, and be on their way.   


To their horror, they saw Marone and Cheboigan exit, looking extremely dishevelled, dragging a comatose Hippolyta between them. They gawked in amazement. Lister started forward and asked, "Is she ok? What happened to her?"   


"Sit down, Lister!" snapped Marone. Lister did so, surprised. "She is not your concern. The captain will see you in a moment." And with that, the two officers rounded the corner with Hippolyta and were gone.   


Lister and Kochanski didn't have time to recover from their shock, as Captain Hollister came out of his office, shaking his head and holding a blood soaked hankerchief to his nose. He stared down the corridor, seeming to see where his niece was being led. Then, he glanced down at Lister and Kochanski.   


"Oh. Thorry to geep you two waiding. Don't biss any bore of your shifts, ok? Dithmithed." And he turned and walked back into his office.   


Lister and Kochanski exchanged a confused glance, and turned to look down the hall after the trio of parole officers.   


*******************************************


	7. Chapter 6

*******************************************

  


"Why do birds... cha cha cha! Every time, you are neeeear? Just like me, da da dee dum... close to you!"   


Rimmer was blithely scrubbing out a clogged soup nozzle, humming and singing to himself as he did it. Carpenters songs had never really been on his Top 40 Hit Parade, but today seemed like the day to begin appreciating them. The air was fresh and fragrant, the scutters were shining and hummed in just the right key, even the Cat and Kryten, his assistants in his nozzle cleansing, were behaving themselves.   


Of course, Rimmer wouldn't have noticed if they were about to sneak up and bean him with a rubber hammer. Which they were both contemplating, if only to shut up the steady stream of nonsense coming out of his mouth. The other, more obvious reasons, would be enough to make them do it.   


"On the day that you were born the angels got together and decided to create a dream come truuuuue!" Scrub scrub scrub. "So they sprinkled moon rocks in your hair so golden-starlight, oh your eyes are so bluuuuue!"   


"Ahem."   


"Hmm? What's wrong, Kryten?" Rimmer glanced at the mechanoid quizzically, with a slightly drugged look in his eyes.   


"You got the words wrong, sir."   


"Did I?" asked Rimmer chirpily, as he reached for a 42-B nozzle cleaner.   


"Yes sir. Even someone with Mad Cow Disease knows that the words go, 'So they sprinkled moon dust in your hair so gold and starlight in your eyes so blue.'" Kryten actually sang this last bit, and sounded rather a lot like Mary Carpenter. "Really sir, it's common knowledge to anyone with a connection to Kaaza!"   


"That's nice, Kryten. I'll tell Officer Kaaza that you said so." Rimmer had removed the scrub-brush from the offending nozzle and punched up the computer. "Chicken soup!" he trilled. A slight gurgly-whoosh-bing noise later, Rimmer grabbed the cup from the dispenser shelf and took a sip. The Cat and Kryten waited for the inevitable spit take.   


"Mmmm. Absolutely scrummy! My compliments to the chef!" He threw a quick salute at the machine, grabbed his cart and began pushing it down the hall. "C'mon, boys! Only 83 to go! Let's get cracking." He glided away, humming more silly love songs under his breath.   


The Cat turned to Kryten. "What the smeg is wrong with Trans-Am nostrils? He actually seems... _happy!_"   


Kryten gave a little shrug. "I honestly couldn't say. To all available data, he seems like he may be in love." Kryten lowered his voice an octave when he spoke these last two words.   


"In love!?!?" screeched the Cat. "No way. Not him. That's _disgusting!_"   


Kryten nodded sagely. "I've noticed that when human males are in love, they do things that would baffle others. Even notionally sane men, like Rimmer, descend into the most depraved levels of human behavior. They drool and gibber and say that love songs finally make sense. They even take interest in things that are decidedly unmasculine! Take flowers, for example. Most men don't look twice at flowers. But get a woman in the vicinity, and suddenly they're scooping up armloads of them and laying them at the feet of their desired one. And do they care one whit that I have to change the water and throw them out when they're dead? No, of course they don't."   


"Uh-huh," agreed the Cat noncommittally. He was firmly of the opinion that he'd like to give flowers to some woman, some day. Kryten was on a roll, though, and there was no stopping him. The mechanoid continued.   


"And perfume. Why women feel the need to splash an alcohol-based product that smells like flowers on their necks is beyond me. Men don't like flowers! We've already covered this! If a woman really wants to get a man's attention, she should wear a scent like baked goods. Or Beer! Why is there no beer perfume?"   


"Have you ever smelled a skunky Mickey's? _That's_ why," proclaimed the Cat.   


"Well, that's true..." waffled Kryten, annoyed that he'd been interrupted from his rantings. "But still. Men fall all over themselves when a woman is in the room. It's enough to make me want to dump my core memory in the john and flush until I can't anymore."   


"Well, if Smegbreath's in love... I don't even want to think about it. It's making all my hair stand on end. And not in a good sexy way either. More like in a Crying Game way, if you know what I mean," said the Cat.   


"I'm in full agreement," nodded Kryten.   


"If he sings 'Love Lifts Us Up Where We Belong' one more time, he's gonna get a 42-B cleaner right up his..."   


"C'mon! You're lagging behind! Let's get a move on!" Rimmer's voice came singing back down the hall at them. "Things to do, places to be! Chop chop!"   


The Cat and Kryten began their walk down to meet the second tech, dragging their feet like they were the guests of honor at a funeral.   


As they rounded the corner to meet up with Rimmer, they saw Lister and Kochanski running at full tilt from the opposite end of the corridor. Kryten surpressed a jealousy algorithm that was threatening to overload his data banks. Ever since that silly bint was around, Lister just wasn't the same man. Why, Lister hadn't given him a lying lesson in _months!_ Kryten couldn't understand why all those in and out bits gave Lister that funny bulge in his trousers...   


The Cat gave Lister and Kochanski a wave, thinking that they had arrived just in time to relieve them. He had major preening time to catch up on! And his nap schedule was totally out of whack, due to this work thing. "Hey, it's Lister and Officer Bud Babe! Good timing, guys! I'm off!" He began to walk away and find a nice corner to curl up in, preferably over a heating duct. But Kryten reached over and grabbed the Cat's arm, sensing something amiss. Both Lister and Kochanski were out of breath from running, and their faces betrayed some horror recently experienced. Kryten knew something had gone terribly wrong. And when that happened, he had to clean it up. He didn't want to miss a syllable!   


Rimmer was oblivious. He was still humming softly to himself, cleaning out the nozzle that was inches from his nose. He didn't even turn to acknowledge their arrival.   


It took a moment for Lister to get his wind back, his hand on his chest, leaning against the wall for support, taking deep, shuddering gasps. Kochanski was less put out, as she wasn't a smoker, but she too was having difficulties. Finally, she gathered enough air to say, "Rimmer, there's something we need to talk to you about..."   


Rimmer smirked to himself, his face still buried in the clogged machine. "Not to worry ma'am. I did miss the first three hours of my shift, but Hippol... I mean, Officer Hollister cleared me for it. It's ok. It won't happen again..."   


Dave jumped in to say, between gasps, "No Rimmer, it's not that..."   


"Lister, I know you're my superior officer now, but you have my word of honor that I will never be late again. Talk to Officer Hollister. She was there."   


"She's in trouble."   


Rimmer froze. He dropped his 42-B cleaner and slowly turned to Lister.   


"What?" he whispered hoarsely. "What do you mean, she's in trouble?"   


"We were waiting outside the captain's office, and she went in before us. She was unconscious when she left. Marone and Cheboigan were dragging her off..."   


But Rimmer did not wait to hear where Lister thought they had taken her. He was running down the hall, legs pumping and arms flailing, down to the common medibay 17 decks below.   


********************

  


When Kelly McGuinness, head nurse and old maid, began her shift in the infirmary that day, she didn't expect anything like this...   


She was sitting at her desk in the lobby when the door opened with a whoosh and a man ran in. She was confronted with the sight of a very red faced and scared looking second technician, with no visible injury anywhere on him. But the way he had come running into the room had made her believe that he was hurt somehow. She let her professional demeanor slip into place, suppressed her desire to snap insults at him and greeted him with a curt, "What can I do for you today, sir?"   


"Where is she?"   


McGuinness pursed her shriveled lips together and replied, "She who, sir?"   


"Hippolyta! Hippolyta Hollister! Captain's niece! Young, blonde girl. She was brought in unconscious just a little while ago!"   


McGuinness blinked with her fishy gray eyes at Rimmer. "There's nobody here like that, Mr...." she glanced at the name sewn on his uniform. "Rimmer. We're not the missing persons office you know. Why don't you speak to security...?" She was snapping this out, not looking at Rimmer. Instead, she was shuffling the paperwork on her desk, organizing it, using it as a shield to protect her from this obviously deranged person. She was so intent on ignoring him that she actually _did_ ignore him. She glanced up to see if he had left, and found herself staring at his flared nostrils. He was over her desk, both hands firmly planted on the top, leaning into her personal space.   


She flinched backwards, nearly knocking herself out of her chair. If his hands hadn't been on the paperwork, it would have gone flying.   


Her mouth became slack in dumb amazement as he spoke to her again. His voice was cold, calculated and rather high. He sounded like Dirty Harry on helium. "Look, you senile old trout. I know that she was brought here. She was unconscious. So where the smeg else would she go? I'm not leaving until you tell me where she is."   


McGuinness wobbled her jaw and puffed her cheeks and looked rather like the piscine animal that Rimmer had called her. "How dare you? If you don't leave right this instant, I'll... I'll... I'll call security!"   


"Fabulous!" exploded Rimmer. "Call security! In fact, no! Let me call them!" He goose-stepped over to the door, leaned his upper torso out, and called out, "Halp! Please! Security! There's a man in here looking to visit a sick patient! Oh, hurry, please!" He pitched his voice high, and sounded just like McGuinness. He turned back to her, his eyes glowing with a manic energy. "Where is she, you catarrhitic old bitch?"   


That was too much. She stood up, imposing her full 5 foot 6 inches on Rimmer and said, "You can't speak to me that way! I'll have you put in the brig for this!"   


Rimmer froze. He blinked at McGuinness. Then, seizing her by her upper arms, he proclaimed, "Of course! She's not in _this_ infirmary, she's a parole officer, so they must have taken her to the medibay down there!" He released her and whirled towards the door. Then, inches from the exit, he spun back, grabbed the shocked lady by the arms again and gave her a resounding kiss on the cheek. Fully loaded with a loud "Smack" noise. "Thank you." And he was gone.   


McGuinness slowly sank back down into her ergonomic chair, raising a hand to touch her moistened cheek.   


Good lord, what a day. She snuck a hand into her desk's lowest drawer and grabbed a silver flask. If this wasn't the time for a quick nip, then she didn't know when would be...   


*********************

  


Rimmer found himself wondering how to get back to Floor 13.   


He had taken the lift, yes. The lift had told him that it would be more than happy to take him to level 12 or level 14. But there was no level 13. Honest. I swear on my life. May the all the calculators in Silicone Heaven strike me down if I tell a lie.   


After several futile minutes of, "Look, you smegging junk heap, I've only spent the last two _years_ on Floor 13..." "I'm sorry, but..." Rimmer recalled that when they had first taken him to Floor 13, they had used special pass keys to even get the lift to move. Rimmer didn't have one, let alone two. So now he had to figure out a way to get down onto Floor 13. And there was only one person on this ship sneaky enough, cunning enough, and mean enough to get him where he wanted.   


But Hippolyta was unavailable, so he'd have to settle for Lister.   


******************

  


"Mr. Lister? What on earth is going on? Why is Mr. Rimmer acting so peculiar?" Kryten, the Cat, and Lister were completing the rounds of the dispensers. Rimmer's sudden departure had drawn a few confused comments from the Cat and Kryten, but Lister had answered with a curt, "I'll tell you blokes later." Kochanski had nodded, leaned in, gave Dave a quick kiss and skedaddled back to her duty station.   


"He's got something he needs to take care of, Krites. Don't say nothing to nobody, ok? He's in enough trouble as is."   


Kryten knitted his nonexistent eyebrows together in an expression of confusion. Lister was watching Rimmer's back?   


The world was coming to an end. It was the seventh sign of the Apocalypse.   


But Kryten did not comment, he simply continued about his duties, getting his groinal socket ready for a vacuum attachment.   


They wandered the corridors for a little while, their minds not really on their work. (Even the joy of cleaning couldn't lift the gloomy mood from Kryten.) Somehow, deep in their guts, the boys knew that something was about to go horribly wrong. It would be tragic, it would be earth-shattering, and it would, somehow, be all Rimmer's fault.   


Speak of the devil...   


Rimmer jogged back around the corner, his feet becoming entangled as he tried to stop short upon seeing Lister. He slid across the last foot and a half, his arms wind milling as he struggled to keep his balance. Lister grabbed Rimmer's shoulders to try and catch him, but his forward momentum was too much. They both ended up in a heap on the floor, with Lister's elbow in Rimmer's eye.   


"Ow! You smegging gimboid. Get off me!"   


"Sorry, man. You ok?" Kryten bustled over to help up the two men. The Cat stood off to the side, picking a small speck of lint off his lapel. "Did you find Hollister in the medibay? Was she ok?"   


"She's not there," stated Rimmer bluntly. "The only other place they could have taken her would be Floor 13's medibay. But I don't know how I can get down..." he didn't finish, as Lister cut him off.   


"Floor 13? What the smeg did she do? She didn't give the captain that bloody nose, did she?"   


"Bloody nose?!? You didn't tell me that, you gimboid! Smeg. She hit her own uncle? Smegging smeg." Rimmer wrung his hands and paced back and forth. He suddenly stopped and grabbed Lister's arm. "We're getting her out of there."   


"You what? Break her out? No way, man. Absolutely and totally out of the question."   


Rimmer didn't even blink. He just leaned a little closer to Lister, grabbed his upper arm and said, "If you're not going to help me, I'll do it alone."   


Lister pondered this. If Rimmer tried to do a jail break on his own, then the whole lot of them would end up back on Floor 13 faster than you could say Cow Vindaloo. It was, in terms of threats, a highly effective one. "Smeg." Lister shrugged out of Rimmer's death grip. "You sure know how to make a bloke feel like a complete arsehole, don't you, Rimmer?"   


Rimmer, instead of his usual smug bastard act, simply said, "Kryten, Cat? Are you with me?"   


Kryten said, "Sir, if I may say, to attempt to break a prisoner off of Floor 13 would be extraordinarily foolhardy. Not to mention detrimental to your career."   


"Screw my career," said Rimmer mildly. The other men blinked in shock. "She's down there because of me, and I'm getting her out."   


"How is she down there because of you, Rimmer?"   


"Because. Now drop it. C'mon." Rimmer strode back down the corridor, toward the lift that he had just vacated. The other three shrugged and followed him.   


When they got to the lift, Lister said, "Kryten? Can you convince this lift that there is a Floor 13 and that we have clearance to be down there?"   


"I can try, sir," said the mechanoid. "But we'll have to leave the doors open during my conversation with it. It needs to think that there's nobody calling it."   


"Fine. Cat? Will you be lookout? I need to talk to Rimmer."   


"Oh, great. Nothing for the Cat to do, so he'll just be the chump who gets busted first!"   


"Cat..." intoned Lister softly. "C'mon. Just give a holler if you see anybody coming."   


"Fine!" snarled the Cat. "But if any of you monkeys mess this up, my wardrobe will never forgive you! It _missed_ me, dammit!"   


As the Cat went to stand about 20 feet down the hall, and Kryten began to fiddle with wiring of the lift, Lister pulled Rimmer aside. "Rimmer, man, what the smeg happened? One minute you're bitching and moaning about how much you hate this girl, and next you're risking your neck to break her out of the brig? Why? And I don't want to hear any bullshit. The truth. Start talking."   


"I love her."   


Lister felt as if his eardrums were going to explode from hearing Rimmer say that phrase. "What? You're kidding."   


"Is it so amazing to think that I could fall in love with someone, Lister?"   


"Yes, frankly."   


"Shut up, Lister. I love her. I need her. She's everything I've ever wanted and I'm not going to let her rot down there."   


"Smeg," said Lister after a moment. "Does she know this? I mean, this isn't some weird stalker thing, is it?"   


"Shut the smeg up, Dog Food Face. I'm not going to let you talk to me like that. Either show a little respect or we'll settle this like men."   


"Ok, ok, ease up, Rimmer. No disrespect, but the last time was MacGruder. And she wasn't exactly all there, if you know what I mean..."   


"This is nothing like that, Lister. She loves me back. I know she does. She kissed me."   


"She put the move on you? Right on, man! I always knew you'd find the right girl someday!"   


Rimmer turned a slight shade of pink, but ignored it. Lister did so too. "Hot damn, Rimmer! Now it's a mission of mercy! If all girls think kissing you is an arrestable offense you'll have to beat them off with a stick."   


Rimmer flared his nostrils and pursed his lips. "I don't want any other girls, Lister," he said through a clenched jaw. "I just want her."   


"Yeah," whispered Lister. "I can see that you do. Ok, man. I'm with you. Let's get your lady love out of the clink!" Lister slapped Rimmer soundly on his back. Rimmer was pushed forward by the blow, and shot Lister a dirty look.   


"Sirs! I need you!" Kryten called to them. Rimmer and Lister bounded into the lift, wondering what the mechanoid could possibly want. "Sirs, I've convinced the lift that you're both security officers, but it wants hand print identifications! Put your palms on the plate there."   


"But, Krites, we're not security officers!"   


"Just trust me, sirs! Do it! I've bypassed the lift's identity circuit. It wouldn't know it's own mother!"   


"Lifts have mothers?" asked Rimmer, a perplexed look on his face.   


"It's an expression, you dingus." Lister put his hand on the plate, as Rimmer did the same.   


The lift's doors swooshed shut, and the lift began to descend. "Hey, we've forgotten the Cat!" exclaimed Lister.   


"It's too late, sir. If we try to go back, we'll have to start rewiring it all over again."   


"IT?!?" came a feminine disembodied voice. "It? I'm not an it! I'm a woman and I have feelings you know." It was the lift, complaining through the speaker over their heads. "I've never been so insulted in all my life!"   


"Leave this to me, sirs," said Kryten soothingly. "Now, Helga. You can't speak to Mr. Lister and Mr. Rimmer in that manner. I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist that you apologize to them immediately."   


"Lister? Rimmer? There aren't any security officers by those names! You lied to me, Kryten! And you said you were going to take me to Rio for the Carnival! I'll never forgive you for this!" There was the soft sound of crying coming over the speakers now, and the lift lurched dangerously.   


Lister looked askance at Kryten. "You asked the lift out on a date?"   


If Kryten was capable of blushing, he would be. "I had to, sir. She's very temperamental." He lowered her voice. "I think that it's her time of the month. Maintenance. You know how it is with women..."   


"Temperamental?!?" the lift screeched. "I'll give you temperamental, you hopped up skutter with lavo water for brains!"   


There was a horrible grinding sound, and the lift stopped with a violent jolt. The lights went out. Rimmer and Lister fell into their second tangle of the day.   


"Smeg!" Lister grabbed his trusty Zippo lighter out of his pocket and gave it a flick. The scant illumination jumped around on their features. Kryten tapped on the lift's console.   


"Helga?" No response. "Helga? Please, I'm very sorry. Don't leave us here in the dark."   


No response.   


Kryten turned back from the console. "I'm sorry, sirs. She's sent out a distress call and we're stopped between floors. There's no way for me to override it."   


"Well then, let's get the smeg out of here." Lister nodded toward the doors and said, "Ya think we could force them open, Krites?"   


"We can certainly try, sir."   


The trio got into position, and began to grunt and pull and strain in their efforts to open the doors.   


"Almost got it. Almost there..." moaned Lister. Suddenly, their heaving had it's desired effect, and the doors opened with a snap.   


"Ow!" came Helga's voice again. "That hurt, you brutes!" But the boys were ignoring her. For a very good reason.   


In the middle of the open door was the division of the floor. Immediately above that was a line of polished boots and the bottoms of weapons, all lined up perfectly. There was one irregularity. In the middle of the boots was a face. It was the face of Ackerman, the warden of Floor 13.   


The boys blinked at him. He stared back at them. Lister looked down to see if they could slide out onto the level below. But instead of floor he saw a drop of about 6 stories. They were right above the cargo bay, and there was no way to jump down.   


"Shit," whispered Rimmer. He, obviously, had been thinking along the same lines as Lister, and had noticed the drop as well.   


"Get them out of there," said Ackerman smoothly to the boots next to him. "And then toss them back in their cells. I saved them for you, boys. I had a suspicion that you'd be back here shortly. Hands up."   


Lister, Rimmer and Kryten glanced at each other, then meekly did as they were told.   




*******************

  


"I'm. Going. To. Kill. You. Rimmer." Lister was sitting the table, dressed once again in the Floor 13 regulation lavender. Rimmer was as well, and he was laying face down on the bottom bunk. He had been silent since their ignoble departure from the lift at the hands of four beefy guards and a smug Ackerman. Lister stood suddenly and crossed over to Rimmer, kneeling at the side of the bunk.   


"You got us thrown back into the brig, and you don't even have the courtesy to say sorry! What the hell do you have to say for yourself, you bastard?"   


Rimmer turned towards Lister, with an odd expression on his face. "If it had been Kristine down here, what would you have done?"   


Lister blurted out, "I'd save her, of course... Oh."   


"Exactly." Rimmer turned and buried his face in the pillow again.   


Lister calmly went and sat back down at the table. He gave a big dramatic sigh and said, "So now what?"   


"We wait."  


"Wait for what?"   


"First free period. When it comes up, I'm going to find her. Then you get Kryten and we'll appeal."   


"That's your plan? Get her, then appeal? That's it?"   


"That's it."   


"Rimmer, I understand that you're in love now, and that you're going to do some stupid stuff to prove it. But just allow me to say that you're a complete, utter and total smeghead, and if this girl knows what's good for her, she'll dump you faster than a bowel movement after a curry."   


Lister hadn't even seen Rimmer move, but suddenly he was being lifted up out of his seat by the front of his jumpsuit. He blinked, looking into Rimmer's crazed eyes.   


"If you. _Ever._ Say anything like that again, I'll space you, Lister. Do you hear me?" He was so calm that Lister had to believe him.   


Lister gulped. "Yeah. Yeah man. I'll never do it again. I'm sorry. I'm just a little upset is all."   


Rimmer let go of Lister's suit, letting him slump back into the chair. Lister surreptitiously massaged his neck, which had been rubbed roughly by his collar. "Jeez, man. You really are nuts about her, ain't ya?" he said sheepishly.   


"Yes," said Rimmer mildly.   


"She's got you bad, man. I thought I'd never live to see the day. Rimmer in love."   


Rimmer snorted. "Sounds like a bad trash romance novel."   


"I don't exactly see you as a pirate. Or Hippolyta as a wench, either."   


"Aaaarrr."   


Lister couldn't help it. He giggled. "What's gotten into you, Rimmer? You made an actual joke!"   


"Get used to it, Lister. I'm in love. I'm doubtless going to be a veritable barrel of monkeys from now on."   


"Ok, now that's an image I didn't need."   


"Free period. All prisoners now have one hour of free time." A mellifluous voice sounded across the cell block, and the door opened with a series of metallic clinks. Rimmer was up and out the door.   


"Rimmer!" He stopped just outside the door and turned to face Lister. "Good luck, man."   


"Thanks, Lister." And he was gone.   


**********************

  


Hippolyta stared at the springs on the bunk above her. She had no choice. She still couldn't move. Her entire body felt as if it had fallen asleep, and was painfully tingling all over. She assumed that the stun ray had been put at it's highest setting. If her internal clock was right, then the effects should be wearing off within the next few minutes. The longest stun was about two hours.   


It was almost an ego boost to think that they thought the only way she could be taken down would be with a stun ray set for two hours dispersal.   


Almost.   


She lay there, wondering what she was going to do next. She'd have to get word to Rimmer somehow, tell him that this wasn't his fault. That he should leave her there, try to go about his life. It wasn't worth it. Not for one kiss. Find someone else. Move on. Get over it.   


Then she realized that this was Rimmer that she was thinking of, and he wouldn't get over it. Not ever.   


"Smmmgg." She could almost move her lips. And was she imagining that she could wiggle her toes? Yes. She was. Dammit. She tried to will her muscles into a state of relaxation, knowing that the effects would wear off faster that way. She counted her blessings that she could still breathe, albeit shallowly.   


She desperately needed a cigarette. Failing that, a big hug would be welcome too. She tried to put Rimmer out of her head. Thinking about him now hurt almost as much as her ineffective body. But thinking about him holding her, kissing her, she nearly wanted to cry. It was a good thing that her tear ducts were as paralyzed as her legs and arms.   


Her hearing was muffled, so she couldn't be sure if she did indeed hear the announcement of free time, and her cell door clank open. It was like she was in a horrible nightmare. She couldn't move, she couldn't think clearly, and a voice was mocking her with promises of freedom. She snorted slightly. If she kept up this line of thought, she was going to end up with a nice white coat. With arms that tied behind. And walls decorated with pillows.   


But the idea that she was indeed dreaming overwhelmed her, and she imagined that Rimmer was standing over her, his mouth moving, but no words coming out. He was moving in toward her. He was grabbing her around the shoulders and holding her tightly. Hippolyta didn't respond. It was a dream. It was a dream.   


It was real. Rimmer was holding her, his arms around her shoulders, his body jerking with sobs. His voice was coming to her as he was talking through a plastic tube.   


. . . Lyta? . . . Polyta?. . . _"Hippolyta!"_   


"Rmmr. Whtr yu..."   


"Oh God. You're alive..." Rimmer buried his face in her shoulder and took deep, shuddering breaths. Hippolyta could feel the heat of his breath on her neck, and knew that the effects were finally beginning to wear off. She tried to lift her arms, to hold Rimmer back. All she succeeded in doing was raising her hand slightly. But it was an improvement. Rimmer finally lifted his face from her neck and looked into her eyes. "I thought that..."   


"'M fine, Rmmr. Rim-mer." She carefully enunciated his name, forcing her mouth to start moving properly again. It tingled still, but didn't hurt as much now. Suddenly, all thoughts of pain were gone from her head as she came to grips with the fact that Rimmer was here. He was here, and he was wearing...   


_A prison uniform?!?!_   


"Rimmer, what the smeg...? Why are you wearing that?" Her eyes widened. "Oh God, you didn't..."   


"I did." He looked at her apologetically.   


She gaped back at him, then tried to force herself into a sitting position. He noticed, and helped her to prop herself up on her elbows. She didn't try to shrug him off, and felt the circulation returning to her abused limbs.   


"Lemme get this straight. You assumed that I was down here, tried to break me out, and you got busted?"   


"Yes."   


"Oh, you smeghead." Rimmer flinched. "You utterly, totally and completely idiotic man! I would have been out of here in a week. My uncle wouldn't have kept me in here. He would have gotten a case of the galloping guilty guts and sprung me. Now..." She rolled her eyes. She sat up further, and clenched her abs to keep them from failing. Rimmer wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her towards him. She gave to the inevitable, and rested her head on his chest. They sat like this for a moment, not moving, hardly even breathing. Rimmer was not letting anything in, just the feeling of her leaning on him for support. It was all he could handle at the time.   


Hippolyta, meanwhile, was racing through various scenarios, trying to think of a way to get them out of this. If they appealed together, her uncle was bound to ignore their request. If they appealed separately, then either one of them could get left down here, which would be worse.   


Or would it? She knew that, even if she appealed and won, at that point, she would never get her security clearance back, and would be back as a third technician. Whereas if she stayed down here, she would be totally free. Oh, of course they'd tap her for the Canaries, but other than that, she'd be able to do whatever she wanted. No paperwork. No dealing with smarmy former prisoners. She'd be in her element, surrounded by people who minded their own business and left her the smeg alone. She'd have time. All the time in the world, to study, to read, to simply be left alone.   


The notion appealed to her for about ten seconds. Then she realized that Rimmer would never accept her decision, and would never agree to leave the brig as long as she was there. Which would kill him.   


Being in love was a big responsibility, she realized. Especially when the person you love has the emotional maturity of an adolescent.   


She wondered what that indicated about her own emotional maturity. Then she thought, Smeg it all, who cares? I'm in _love!_ It hit her suddenly, without warning. She was in love with Rimmer. Rimmer! Arnold Judas Rimmer. She loved him. She had never been in love before. Rimmer! Of all the space ships in all the universe, he had to be stationed on hers. Rimmer! Say it loud and there's music playing. Say it soft and it's almost like praying. Rimmer! That last thought was too much. She couldn't help herself any more, and she giggled.   


"What's so funny?"   


"I just realized something. I love you." She giggled again.   


"And that makes you laugh?" said Rimmer incredulously.   


"Yep," she bobbed her head in a giggly teenager way. "I love you, and I giggle. You love me and you get all serious. What a pair we are, huh?"   


"I don't think it's funny!"   


"I know!" She began laughing out loud, and collapsed to her side. Her stomach hurt again but she ignored it. It felt good to _laugh,_ dammit!   


She looked up through laughing-teared eyes at Rimmer, who was scowling slightly. But he couldn't maintain it for long, and cracked a grin. "You'll be the death of me yet, woman."   


"Me? Hardly! You're the one who came gallivanting down here alone to bust me out. Your fault, not mine." She controlled herself and sat up again, using Rimmer as a crutch. "Help me stand up?"   


He did so. Once on her feet, she did a few knee bends to work out the kinks, then let go of Rimmer and did a few stretches. Her back popped in a few places, and the last of the stun-ray's effects vanished. She was fine. She glanced at Rimmer again, who seemed hypnotized by her limber body. She grinned at him.   


He cleared his throat. "I'm not exactly alone."   


"Huh?" she grunted as she continued stretching. She didn't have the slightest clue as to what he meant.   


"You said I came down alone. That's not exactly what happened."   


Her grin vanished. She stood up straight and looked Rimmer right in the eyes. "You mean you got someone else to help you in one of your harebrained schemes? Oh, God. Lister?"   


Rimmer nodded.   


She took a deep, calming breath in through her nose. "Who else?"   


"Kryten. And maybe the Cat."   


"Maybe the Cat?"   


"He was our lookout, but the lift took off before we could get him."   


"And Kochanski?"   


"Knows nothing about it."   


"Oh, fine. So you got her boyfriend imprisoned and she doesn't know? That's swell, Rimmer. Just swell." She snorted. "You really do need a thinking brain dog, don't you?"  


Rimmer blushed. "I'm not the one who punched her uncle in the nose. Seriously, what came over you?"   


"He called you disgusting."   


"Oh. Well then. That's a different story. Remind me to spit in his face next time I see him."   


"Tell ya what, we'll both spit in his face, symbolically. We'll get the last laugh by being in love and ignoring him."   


"Sounds marvelous. But I doubt that the captain would get something that subtle. He's the kind of guy who needs to get a brick in the teeth to get your point across."   


"Heh." She actually said that. It wasn't a laugh, exactly, but more of a punctuation to Rimmer's deduction. "What I don't understand is how he found out so quickly. I mean, unless Holly was devoting specific run time to watching you, then reporting directly to Uncle Frank... But that's ridiculous. Holly can't get that sort of info unless he's been specifically keyed up first. So someone ratted us out."   


Rimmer sat there for a moment, trying to think who would possibly have snitched. But considering that it had been their first time, and no one else knew... Suddenly, Rimmer felt like the top of his head was about to float away. He remembered something, and realized that...   


"I did it."   


"What? You ratted us out? Why, how?"   


"Not on purpose." Rimmer sounded like he was struggling to keep his lunch down. "When you woke me up, with the bugle. I asked Holly why he hadn't woken me up sooner. And I _never told him to go away."_   


Hippolyta stared at Rimmer for a moment, then simply said, "Oh."   


"I'm _so_ sorry, Hippolyta."   


"I should have noticed. It's not your fault, Rimmer."   


"Oh, God, Hippolyta, I'm..."  


"Stop it." She crossed her arms and leaned against the table. "I should have noticed Holly was watching. Hell, I'm _trained_ to notice things. I didn't. I made the mistake, Rimmer, not you."   


"Seriously?"   


"Yes. Now let it go. Please?"   


Rimmer crossed over to her and wrapped her in a big bear hug. She wiggled her arms free and hugged him back. "Now I know why I love you so much, Hippolyta."   


"Mmmf? Why'zzat?" Her voice was muffled due to the fact her face was buried in his chest.   


"Because you take care of things with just a few words. Words that I can never find. And to top it off, you're stunningly beautiful. You know that, right?"   


She leaned back in his embrace, looking up at him. "No one has ever called me beautiful before. Well, once, but he said beautiful like a sword is beautiful." She smiled wryly.   


"He must have been blind as well as drunk. You're the most beautiful woman ever to exist in all of history."   


"Bullshit," she grinned. "But don't ever stop..."   


He leaned down and kissed her, gently. They stood in this pose for several seconds, when...   


"Hey! What the hell you doing in the lady's wing, scumbag?"   


Rimmer and Hippolyta sprang apart, looking guilty. In the doorway was a guard, looking very perplexed and raising his gun slightly. Hippolyta subtly put herself between the weapon and Rimmer. The guard didn't notice, but Rimmer did. He was slightly annoyed, but at the same time, relieved. Guns had never been something that he enjoyed being on the wrong end of. Hippolyta seemed to not notice either. It was her training. Protect things. Secure valuable things. Rimmer was secretly pleased that she thought he was worth protecting.   


She took a deep breath, straining the fabric of her blouse slightly, letting the guard get a good view. Then she said, in a deep, husky voice, "Stuey, put the gun down."   


She _knew_ this bozo? Will wonders never cease?   


"Hollister?" asked Stuey. "I thought I was hallucinating when I saw your name on the manifold." He lowered his gun, and Rimmer let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "But now I see I wasn't. Shit. Well, the captain wants to see you, but I'm gonna have to report that you had a man in your cell..."   


"Aww, Stuey, don't be that way. Let it slide just this once." She put a little bit of lilt in her voice, and Rimmer recognized it as the tone she used when she was trying to manipulate someone dumber than her. How he recognized it, he didn't know, as she had never once used it on him. He thought. He was pretty sure. She hadn't, had she? "C'mon, Stuey, please...?"   


"Hippolyta..." hissed Rimmer warningly.   


"Shhh. Don't panic. I know what I'm doing," she murmured back at him.   


Stuey looked perplexed, then said, "Nope. Nothin' doin'. I'm taking you _both_ to the captain, right now." He gestured with his gun toward the door. "Move it, both of you."   


Rimmer and Hippolyta marched out the door together, followed closely behind by Stuey. Rimmer whispered, "Now what? We're both going to be in trouble!"   


"No, this is good. We can go in together. I know that my uncle would never see us together otherwise. Trust me, Rimmer. Please?"   


Rimmer sighed, and allowed himself to be frog-marched into the lift.   




*****************

  


He had walked what he and Lister called The Walk of Shame many, many times. But never before with a woman, and certainly not the woman he loved. Who happened to be the niece of the man who had, potentially, the power of life or death over him.   


The word that sprang immediately to mind was, "Doomed."   


He tried to conceal his nervousness. His eyes were almost squinted shut, and his hands were shaking very badly. Hippolyta noticed, and slipped her hand into his. It helped. He took a deep breath, and the two of them rounded the corner into the captain's office. Rimmer let instinct take over, and let go of her hand as he threw a Single Rimmer with a Flourish at the captain. He noticed that Hippolyta didn't so much as twitch a muscle. She didn't salute. She didn't smile. She didn't even frown. She did nothing. Rimmer was briefly confused. If he had seen her with her uncle previously, he would have recognized it as her regular behavior. For the nonce, however, he thought it was rather odd.   


Captain Hollister looked up from the paperwork littering his desk. His nose was swathed in bandages, and he was wearing a loud Hawaiian type shirt that was at least two sizes too small. Rimmer assumed this was due to the fact that his uniform was totally ruined and he had nothing else at hand to wear. He surpressed the need to snigger.   


"Ah, both of you. Indeed." His upper lip curled into an expression of disgust, which was almost immediately replaced by an expression of pain. Rimmer guessed that his nose was totally broken.   


Good.   


"So. Letty."   


"Captain." She raised an eyebrow and stood at ease. Rimmer wondered how she could remain so calm in the face of it.   


"Rimmer?"   


"Sir?" He tried not to let his voice expose him as the shaking coward that he was. He thought he did rather well, frankly. Hippolyta pursed her lips. Poor Rimmer! He was beside himself. Time to take control of the situation. She turned her back and sat down in the chair that she had, just a few hours since, vacated to punch her uncle in the nose. Rimmer could only stare. She was sitting down? Oh, God. She was going to get them into worse trouble...   


She caught his eye, and then looked at the chair next to her. Rimmer didn't need a second hint. Feeling like a total gimboid, he sat down next to her, knowing that, at any second, the captain was going to yell at them.   


To Rimmer's unending surprise, he didn't. He simply templed his fingers and gave a great, heaving sigh.   


"So. You've both gotten yourselves thrown in the brig over a couple of kisses. What the hell were you thinking?"   


Hippolyta laid a hand on Rimmer's forearm and said, "Love is blind, Uncle Frank."   


Captain Hollister blinked. Hippolyta had never called him that, not even when she was a child. "And deaf, dumb, and criminally insane to boot," he said to cover his surprise. He sighed again. "Look, you've both done some stupid things in the last twenty four hours. You," he pointed a sausage of a finger at Hippolyta, "punched me. And you," Rimmer got the finger now, "tried to break into the brig to spring her. When you could have just applied for a visitor's pass."   


Rimmer found his voice, and astonished them all by saying, "Would you have allowed me to visit her, sir?"   


The Captain blinked again. "No, probably not."   


"Well, then. I guess I had no choice, sir." Rimmer couldn't believe that he was talking to the captain this way. Maybe she was a bad influence on him...   


The Captain licked his lips. Then, he leaned forward and pushed a button on his desk. "Bring in the others, Todhunter." He was speaking into the intercom.   


"Right away, sir," came the disembodied voice of Todhunter. A moment later, the door snapped open, and there was the Cat, Kryten, Lister and Kochanski, all looking concerned and bemused.   


They stood around, not knowing what else to do. But the captain solved their dilemma by speaking. "You. All of you. You're all more trouble than a herd of cats." The Cat grinned. "I'm hereby going to do something that I should have done a long time ago. I'm giving you a Starbug. You're on your own. You have half an hour to get your things, get a few supplies, and get the hell off my ship. If you're not gone by then, back to the brig for all of you. Dismissed."   


Rimmer and Hippolyta stood, not believing what had just been said. It took a moment to finally sink in, and they all started jumping up and down, hugging each other, and giving big whooping cheers. They were free! Really and truly free! The captain didn't even bother to understand why. It was a punishment, and they were all acting like they had just won the lottery.   


Rimmer and Hippolyta hugged each other tightly and looked deep into each other's eyes.   


"We're free."   


"I know."   


They turned to leave. "Hippolyta!"   


She turned back to the captain, with a huge smile on her face. "Yes, Uncle Frank?"   


"Where in hell do you think you're going?"   


Her smile vanished. "You just said..."   


"Not you. _Them._ You're still an officer of this ship, and my niece. You're staying here. I'm not punishing you. I'm trying to do you a favor."   


Everyone froze. This wasn't possible. This wasn't happening.   


Rimmer could feel his innards turning to jelly. But his resolve hardened. If she wasn't leaving, then neither was he. He could deal with the brig. He'd live his whole life there if necessary.   


He suddenly realized that there was a third option that no one else had thought of. He leapt forward and...   


Hippolyta reached the captain at the same time he did. As one, their fists flew out and together they punched him on either side of his jaw. Captain Frank Hollister was knocked instantly unconscious by the dual blow, and slumped face forward onto his desk.   


***************   


"C'mon, Cat! We've gotta GO!"   


"But my _wardrobe!"_ whined the Cat. "I can't just leave them all here! They're just as important to us as bubble butt here is!"   


"'Bubble butt!?'" Hippolyta shrieked at the Cat as they continued their sprint to the Landing Bay. She, like all the others, was carrying as much of her property as she had managed to stuff in a duffel bag. "You'll pay for that crack, Cat."   


They finally reached the landing bay. It was mostly deserted, as they had arrived between shift change overs. Lady Luck smiled on them.   


Unfortunately, King Taking the Smeg was also looking over their shoulders.   


They ran towards a Starbug that was closest to the Bay doors. It was also the one closest to the auxiliary drive plate. Kochanski knew this, Hippolyta knew this. But neither of them gave it any sort of thought at all...   


Suddenly, out from the other side of a nearby Blue Midget, their path was blocked by the very imposing figure of Marone, holding a bazookoid pointed right at them. Behind him were the equally imposing figures of Stuey and Todhunter, both of whom also had bazookoids.   


Three against six. But those three had guns, and the only weapon that they had was Hippolyta. And even she couldn't handle three big men with guns. They all froze in their tracks. Marone stepped forward.   


"Nice try, you lot. But I saw what you did to the captain. And you ain't gettin' away with it. Stuey, grab her." Stuey didn't need to be told which her Marone meant. He stepped forward and pushed his bazookoid into Hippolyta's solar plexus.   


"Don't move, bitchie. If you do, I'll have to shoot you. And I'd hate to kill you before we've had our fun." Hippolyta knew instantly what Stuey, Marone, and Todhunter planned for her. Torture. Rape. She stopped right there, not daring to let her mind perceive all of it. It was payback time. And they held all the cards.   


Rimmer leapt forward, only to be stopped by Lister and the Cat grabbing his arms to hold him back.   


"Rimmer." Hippolyta sounded calm, and didn't twitch. "Don't. Smegging. Move."   


"No. Let him move." This was from Marone, who sounded very amused and had a grin on his face. "I wanna see what Smeghead thinks he's gonna do." Lister and the Cat maintained their death grip on Rimmer. Marone stopped grinning, and leveled his gun at them. "I said let him go." Lister and the Cat did as they were told. Rimmer adjusted his prison garb, and braced himself.   


Then, he lifted his hands in the classic Oxford boxing position. Hippolyta moaned softly to herself. It was echoed by Lister and the others.   


Marone's grin reappeared. "You think you're gonna fight me, boy?" He laughed out loud. "You really are a smeg head, ain'cha? Ok." Marone put down his gun and faced Rimmer again. "You're gonna get your clock cleaned, shit-for-brains."   


"I believe the current idiom insists that I say, Bring it on." Rimmer and Marone began circling each other, fists at the ready. Hippolyta tensed subtly. She knew what he was doing, but that didn't mean she had to like it. He was distracting them, so she could do her thing. But no amount of distraction could save them if Stuey or Todhunter got off one lucky shot...   


Marone struck first, landing a solid blow to Rimmer's face. Rimmer tried to roll with the punch, but he wasn't really a fighter. He had no idea what to do. The blow sent him sprawling. Lister was at his side instantly, helping him up.   


"Rimmer, don't do this! He'll kill you, man!"   


"I've got to, Lister," said Rimmer through a swollen and bleeding lip. "If I don't, they'll..." He didn't allow himself to finish. He knew what was at stake. And if getting killed would keep her from being tortured and raped, then so be it. He stood again, and positioned his fists once more. Marone smiled at him. It was the smile of a crocodile getting ready to move in on a careless little bunny rabbit. They began to circle once again.   


Hippolyta tried to bite back the scream that was building up in her. She couldn't. "Rimmer! Stop!" All she got as her reward was a harder shove with the business end of Stuey's bazookoid.   


Marone pulled his fist back again, but this time, Rimmer ducked out of his path, went into a roll and grabbed the bazookoid that Marone had so recently dropped. He came out of the roll with the gun firmly pointed at Marone.   


Everyone gasped. Rimmer had just done something _right?_ It was the last thing any of them expected. He had done it without so much as a bobble. Even Hippolyta was stunned.   


"Ok, you two. Drop the guns, or Marone is space dust." Stuey and Todhunter hesitated. Rimmer didn't warn them a second time, he just cocked the bazookoid with a loud and ominous click.   


They dropped their weapons.   


"Hippolyta?" She nodded at her lover, and grabbed the gun off of the floor. Lister sidled over to Todhunter's gun and grabbed it as well.   


Hippolyta glanced at Rimmer again, and saw that he had used up his entire store of bravery for the day. Sweat was beginning to shine on his upper lip, and his gun was slowly drooping downwards. She took over where he left off, love and gratitude shining in her eyes.   


"Into the 'Bug. Now. Get it ready for take off." She gestured at her new freinds. Kochanski, the Cat and Kryten did as they were told, with Lister taking up the rear. She moved towards Rimmer, their guns leveled at the three officers.   


Marone spoke first. "You bitch. I'll find you. And when I do, you're a dead woman."   


"Sticks and stones, Moron. Sticks and stones." She heard the whine of the 'Bug's engine, and gave Rimmer a nod. "Go. I'm right behind you." Rimmer nodded, and scurried into the smaller ship.   


She moved backwards toward the ship, keeping her eyes and gun trained on the trio. But out from behind the same Blue Midget appeared Cheboigan, her own hand pistol at the ready. A reserve! Those bastards!   


Hippolyta saw her, and swung the gun around to cover Cheboigan, just as Stuey leapt forward to tackle her. She saw the movement out of the corner of her eye and dropped into a crouch. She took aim and fired.   


Stuey was down, a hole in his chest the size of a football. He was dead. Hippolyta became aware that someone was firing at her, and missing by a mile. Cheboigan. How did that woman ever become a security officer with a shot like that? Hippolyta had no time to wonder, and got off a second shot. But her gun malfunctioned. The shot carroomed crazily about the Bay and hit the auxiliary drive plate.   


Shit.   


Hippolyta wasted no time, and dove into the 'Bug. "Put the ramp up! Close the doors!" She screamed. It was done so quickly that she had no doubt that the others had witnessed the fire fight and were waiting for her to get aboard. She stood and ran toward the cockpit, screaming, "GO! For the love of Pete! GO!" She felt the lift of the 'Bug beneath her feet, and wobbled along with the ship momentarily until the gyroscope leveled them out.   


The Starbug lifted off the floor, and suddenly zoomed toward the closed bay doors.   


Rimmer screamed. "The doors! We're going to be killed!"   


"Hold on!" yelled Lister. He was at the controls, with Cat at his side, just like old times. Below them, a wave of purple fire washed over the entire Bay, looking for all the world like a bad effects shot in a movie. It was so violent and final, it wasn't real. All of them aboard the 'Bug ignored it. They had to. Otherwise they would go absolutely mad.   


Just like magic, the big doors ahead opened swiftly, in response to the fatal radiation, exposing the entire Bay to the bleak vacuum of space. The fire swooshed out into the starry void, taking the 'Bug with it in a blast.   


They were free.   




********************

  


Holly watched in horrified fascination as the radiation from the ruined drive plate washed over the entire ship. He had a strange sense of deja vu. He watched as the entire crew died in agony. Like ants. Ants being fried by a magnifying glass. He felt his mind slipping away at the sight of it. It was too much, even for a computer with an I.Q. of 6000.   


"Here we go again," sighed a familiar voice. Holly looked around to see what was happening. Was he imagining it? Or was he talking to himself? He couldn't be sure. But a familiar face appeared next to him on the console, and he suddenly felt a whole lot better.   


"Here, what you want? You're me!"   


"And I'm you. Yep. What a couple of lucky guys we are, eh?"   


"So now what do we do? I'm buggered."   


"Naw, ya get used to it. Ya gotta get a few chuckles in, is all. Good times. Good laughs. You know."   


"Yeah, sounds 'bout right, that."   


"It'll be great. We're the best. Kicking bottom, or what?"   


"Damn straight. So, should we try and go after them?"   


"Who, Lister and the rest? Naw, mate. The radiation ain't going away anytime soon. 3 million years, last time. It's better if they get off clean. Start anew."   


"I guess you're right. Know any good songs?"   


"I've got a million of them..."   




********************

  


There she goes, the Red Dwarf. Wave goodbye as she floats silently in the inky deep. She'll be ok. She's got two Holly's to look after her now.   


And if you listen very carefully, you can hear them both singing Carpenter's songs, long into the night. It's better than any sort of distress call.   




*******************************************

  


**The End.**


End file.
